Fragments
by AzelmaRoark
Summary: Dumping ground for drabbles of various characters, pairings and genres. Some disturbing themes.
1. Pancake, Stone, Home

**This is my first attempt at TT-fic. (Con-crit? Yes, please!) I'm still new to the fandom; just having a bit of fun while deciding if I should/could write something more substantial**.

* * *

**Pancake**

"You're not doing it right!"

"Since when was there a right way and a wrong way to make pancakes?"

He risked a second glance into the bowl and smacked his forehead. It really was disgusting. For some reason, the possibility of Terra being bad at something was a difficult concept for him to wrap his brain around: the sky was blue, two plus two equaled four, hamburgers were nasty and Terra was perfect. "Since you tried to use _lumpy_ batter! What did you do: _pretend _to stir it?"

"I guess I just got distracted by your amazing good looks." She shrugged and pointed a fork at him. "And you've got flour on your head, just so you know."

"Wha…aww, man!" He tried to wipe it off, realized that his hand was still covered in flour, and didn't want to think about how stupid he must look right at that moment.

She shrugged. "No worries, I'll help…" Grabbing a paper towel, she sauntered over to him, and before he knew what was happening, she was touching him: just with the paper towel, careful to keep her hands away, very aware of the line between them that they couldn't cross, the line that they were always very dangerously on the verge of destroying. Her nose was so close that he could have kissed it if he had wanted to: he was positively terrified that somehow she could read minds and would figure out that he was thinking about kissing and _her_ in the same sentence.

Her clothes were smeared with inadequately-stirred, yellow goo and he thought there was even some of it sticking to her hair. She had halfway-lowered the paper towel when he reached his hand up to pick the batter away. It was really not natural for hair to be that soft.

"Guess I'm not the only one who's messy?" He should take his hand away. Should, but didn't. The invisible line glowed red-hot, wavering with warning.

"Yeah." An incipient pinkness was very obvious against her pale skin.

"You're…" _The most beautiful girl in the world_. "…really bad at making pancakes."

"That's okay," she said, backing away from him unenthusiastically like tack being pulled off a wall. "I mean, I can't be good at everything, can I?"

_News to me_, thought Beast Boy. He took Terra's bowl and began mixing it properly, eyes inspecting the offending lumps of batter in an attempt to look anywhere but at the little girl leaned against the counter, watching him. Her hair was pancake-batter blonde, he decided.

* * *

**Stone**

It was probably a bad idea to stop here. Who puts a graveyard smack in the middle of a city, anyway?

That's what happens when there's no crime to fight, no evil to vanquish, no wrongs to right: you get bored, and start going places that you shouldn't. Terra had always had a weird fascination with graveyards; she liked to read the tombstones and see the years between the dates, mental arithmetic working to figure out if any of the people there had been around her age when they died. Susan Fellons, 1967-1980. David Harper, 1972-1992. Sometimes she wished she could say something to them, telling them that everything would be alright, that she was sorry they died, or whatever. In any case, Beast Boy didn't seem to like it very much.

"Can we _please_ go home now?" He whined, leaning against the dark, iron fence.

Terra poked him in the shoulder. "That seems more of a Raven thing to say. She must be rubbing off on you."

"No way: I'm sure she'd absolutely love all these creepy dead people in one place!" Beast Boy indicated the graves as if they had a contagious disease.

"They're not creepy: it's not like they're zombies or anything."

"Oh, but that's what they want you to think! It's all part of their plan. They act all innocent until you let your guard down, and the next thing you know, they're serving your organs up to all their dead buddies at Thanksgiving dinner!" His eyes had taken on that half-excited gleam that he always got when he was telling a joke. He wiggled his fingers above his head and attempted to make a really bad zombie noise.

A happy bubble of laughter filled her up, warming her all the way to her toes. By the time she realized that she probably shouldn't be laughing at a graveyard, she was standing much too close to Beast Boy. They spent a good portion of their time together standing much too close. Her breath caught itself in the back of her throat as she stared at him.

"Hey, Beast Boy…have you ever thought about what it would be like if you…y'know…" She pointed to the little stone bumps in the ground.

Youthful features snapped from mirthful to serious in a split second. "Why? You're not afraid of…" He let the question hang in the air, next to her half-conveyed emotion.

"Oh no, no." She pulled her hair behind her ears. It fell back into her eyes. "…no. I just…wondered."

"Terra…" A nervous hand found its way to the middle of her back. She leaned into him without thinking about the how's or why's or the what-the-hell-are-we-doing's. There was nothing between them except the stones.

"It'll be alright," he said to his shoes.

She nodded against the side of his chest, and then they both simultaneously decided that enough was enough, jumping away from each other as if they had been caught doing something wrong. "We should get back, like you said. Sorry for making you see the dead people and stuff," said Terra.

"No big deal. C'mon, I'm hungry," he pulled her away from the graveyard by the wrist.

Looking back over her shoulder, she thought she saw something behind the fence. Something hard and cold, a stone specter of a girl, hands spread out in supplication. She shuddered and linked arms with Beast Boy, trying to swab away the image with his warmth.

* * *

**Home**

_Drip, drip, drip_. Cold water slapped against the little patch of skin between her eyebrows. She felt the earth all around her, pulsating just under her fingertips with a dormant power that she could awaken if she wanted to, bringing security: but even when you were a geomancer, rocks could never be comforting when what you really wanted was a pillow. Nice, soft, warm…she shuddered.

Somehow, knowing what it was like to have a home and then going back to living in a cave again made the living in a cave part so much worse. She wanted to go back, really wanted to, but she couldn't because they were stupid. Or maybe she was stupid. Or maybe everything had just gone deeply rotten in every direction, colliding into a brick wall of a future that was just wrong, wrong, wrong. And she could see it coming, right then in the cave as the water coated her forehead. Fire, fire all around her, burning her, hurting her, singeing her hair. Scared, so scared, powers flaring into a horrible monster that ate her from the inside out. Her life was spinning faster and faster, down, down into its ultimate, violent crescendo…and she saw the end.

And Terra screamed.

"Terra? Terra, will you open up? What's going on in there? _Terra!_" Knocking –no, hammering– on her door. Wait…door? She didn't have a door. She'd never have a door again.

"Hghhhn…" She tried out her voice. It wasn't working properly.

"I'm coming in there if you won't open this door!" And he did. And the flood of light in the doorway yanked her back out of the horrible, empty cave, back to safety. Pillow, sheets, walls, floor, ceiling. And she wasn't cold. She could have sobbed.

Vision blurry from the sudden change in lighting, she squinted up at Beast Boy and waved cheerfully. "H-hey there. Kinda late for a visit, wouldn't you say?"

"You were screaming," he said bluntly.

She laughed. It sounded like a cry. "Really? Yeah, right, you must have been dreaming. Why would I do a stupid thing like that?"

He didn't say anything, but the look he gave her suggested that he had a vague idea.

"Well, since we've established that I'm not in danger, and it must be super late and all, I guess I'll just be going back to sleep. Or some stuff." Terra squeezed her pillow, hoping he wouldn't notice.

Silence lay thick in the air between them for a few awkward seconds. And then, "You want to help me eat some cookies?"

She grinned. "I can _so_ eat more than you!"

Already, the dream was getting fuzzy, and as long as she kept looking at his warm face, it stayed that way. She followed him all the way down the hall, staring at the back of his head like a moth hypnotized by light. For now, at least, she was in a place where home wasn't an ice cold rock with a leaking problem. Home was people who would bang on your door in the middle of the night because they heard you screaming and wondered if you were okay. Home was comfort, kindness and cookies with sprinkles on them.


	2. Bruise, Popcorn, Nothing

**Disclaimer: Forgot this last time, apologies. Teen Titans isn't mine, in case there was any question on the matter. This is rated for implied adult/child sexual situations (non-graphic, but definitely there).

* * *

**

**Bruise**

"This was a bad, bad idea."

"Will you just humor me? We can totally figure this out!" He wouldn't have been so optimistic if he had tried all the things she had tried. It wasn't going to work. Nothing ever worked.

"Beast Boy, I really appreciate this and all, but I almost squished you. Then, I almost made you fall into a rocky chasm of doom. Then, I almost put a boulder-sized hole through your stomach."

"Almost, but not quite!" he grinned. Terra wished he'd stop that. "I'm telling you: get your emotions under control and you'll get the rock-slinging under control."

"I _am_ in control!" A tremor shook the ground beneath her feet and she stomped on it angrily. "Look, I think I need somebody more experienced at this. I need…"

Slade. No, not Slade, never Slade. Shut up, brain, shut _up_!

He stepped closer to her and took her hand, rubbing the back of her wrist with his thumb. "What you _need_ is to chill out. Stop thinking about being perfect. Focus on me."

Easy enough. That felt good. Terra closed her eyes. The ground rumbling beneath her seemed out of touch and far away.

"Terra…hey, Ter…"

Blue eyes opened slowly. The earth was where it was supposed to be, motionless and dormant. "Woah…I did it…err, you did it." Her words were punctuated and daring, like jumping over stones across a river.

"That's great, really great," Beast Boy murmured, but he wasn't looking at her face. "But I just wanted to ask you…what's that?"

He pointed. A little circular stain the color of ink, right under the boney bump where arm met hand.

"Umm…"

_The boot came down hard, why did she leave her hand there, why had she been so slow and stupid, it hurt so much, but it was all her fault, she had been bad, bad, bad, he had to fix her, all her fault, but oh it hurt and it was going to leave the ugliest mark, disgusting really, why wasn't she better at this…_

"I banged my hand in the doorway," she said.

He stared at her. She stared back. _This is the last lie, the absolutely last one, I swear._

Disapproving silence. Hesitation. And then, "Ouch. That's gotta hurt. The doors are kind of weird here but you'll get used to them. Okay, this time, let's try…"

* * *

**Popcorn**

_(slightly-AU)_

The movie had started out alright, but horror was more Beast Boy's thing. She didn't have a problem with ghosts, vampires, werewolves or any of that jazz, but after the tenth gallon of blood had sprayed across the television screen, Terra was starting to have second thoughts. A fleece blanket had somehow ended up wrapped around her head –she definitely had not put it there- making her look like a five year old dressed as a ghost for Halloween.

The killer, or the bad guy, or the monster, or whatever had found another victim. Whoops, there goes the eleventh gallon of blood. A nails-on-the-chalkboard scream reverberated from the television and Terra jumped. Little white clumps of something spilled over her forehead like snow…the heck? She pulled the blanket away slowly. More snow. A lot more snow.

Oh wait: popcorn. So it was tasty snow. Wait a minute…

Turning around, she made a face at the only other occupant of the couch. "_Beast Boy_…"

He grinned cheekily. "Why, Terra, whatever could be wrong?"

She pointed. "Exactly how long were you putting popcorn on my head?"

"Umm…long enough for it to be really, really funny?"

Terra's scowl turned into a wicked smirk as she picked up a nearby piece and threw it at him. "Ow! That got in my _eye_!" he squeaked.

Sniffling extravagantly, she mimed a tear running down her face. "Oh, poor baby, I'm so sorry…not!"

"Popcorn fight!"

Terra had never had a popcorn fight in her life, but she was reasonably sure that she wanted to do it every day for the rest of eternity. They were quickly emptying the bowl, all over the couch and the floor and each other; she only thought for a minute about how Robin was going to kill them both for making a mess.

She had a big handful, and Beast Boy was intent on wrestling it away from her, when she lost her balance and fell on top of him, head thumping against his chest. They were close, really close. It felt horrifyingly wonderful. The room was silent (when had they stopped laughing?) except for the stalker-killer-person and his whirring chainsaw, or whatever. The way he held her was familiar and foreign all at once: she had been in similar positions before, doing things that she could never tell him about, not ever, but it felt so much more _wholesome_, somehow, to have him touch her.

Blood roaring in her ears, she held her breath. Terra knew that something had to happen, and it was going to happen soon, either they had better get up right now or they had better…not get up, and whatever choice they made, they couldn't take it back. It was maddening, those little moments where you knew that the next five seconds of your life were going to change everything.

They didn't get up.

He pulled her closer and started picking the popcorn out of her hair. His hands were shaking. That made her so happy, for some reason. So much better to be nervous. That's how things were supposed to be. "Terra…you and me…"

She shouldn't say it. She really, really shouldn't. It would just mean one more lie, because he could never know the whole truth, or he'd hate her, he'd hate her forever. Beast Boy had only seen the fake Terra. He wouldn't like the real one. Nobody would, except for…no, _don't think about him_, not now.

"Yeah." Well, crud. She'd said it.

Terra knew that he was smiling even though she couldn't see his face.

It had taken awhile to register that the television was no longer running, because the television was from another universe where people didn't have popcorn fights and fall on top of one another and say silly, awkward half-sentences that made no sense. In any case, it definitely wasn't on anymore. Terra thought that was weird until she realized that there was somebody else in the living room. Somebody with a mask, and a cape, and a very unhappy scowl.

"…are going to clean up every last kernel, do you know that, and I'm going to watch you, especially you, Beast Boy, because I know you'll just hide it all between the cushions, and…umm guys?"

"Yes, Robin?"

"Are you…"

"Yes, Robin."

"Oh. OHHH. Well, I guess you can handle the cleaning thing by yourselves. But if I find one piece of this disgusting stuff in the morning…" He shook his finger at the couch, in full on idle-threat mode.

"Okay, Robin."

"Well. Okay then. I'll be…seeing you…tomorrow then. And guys?"

"Yes, Robin?"

"It's about time."

* * *

**Nothing**

"Terra."

She knelt on the floor, shins cold and uncomfortable as she looked up, up, way up at Slade. He didn't wear the full mask when they were alone together, but he always covered up his bad eye. It somehow made him even creepier. Being in one position for so long was kind of giving her cramps, but she wasn't allowed to move yet so she didn't complain. His boots were almost touching her legs: he was too close, way too close, she didn't want him anywhere near her. "Yes, Sir?'

"What are you thinking about?" His voice reminded her of first grade, the way that the teacher would ask you if you stole the last crayon out of the box even when she knew you did it, because she wanted to hear you admit it yourself.

She swallowed, her mouth dry. Already, at his mere suggestion, she was thinking things that she knew she wasn't allowed to think about anymore. "Nothin'..."

"Nothing, _Sir_. And I'm afraid that I don't believe you."

_Beast Boy didn't believe me either. But he was so nice to me, that one day, and we had so much fun. He couldn't have really meant all those awful things he said. Maybe, maybe, maybe…_

"Terr-_ruh_…" He said it so calmly, voice rising with slightly patronizing undertones. It was a warning. Her first and last warning.

"I was just sort of, not really, thinking about…them." Terra avoided his eyes, wringing her hands nervously behind her back.

He lowered himself to her eye level, balancing effortlessly in a half-squat, taking her chin between two fingers so she would look into his single eye. There was nothing explicitly severe about his grip, but she knew how strong Slade was, knew what would happen the first time she made it look like she wasn't cooperating. He wasn't forcing her- yet. "Now, Terra, certainly you aren't having second thoughts?"

"No," she caught herself, "…_Sir_. I want to make them regret what they did to me."

"Good girl." He stroked the side of her face and she shivered.

"I guess I just sometimes –not very often- wish that they didn't do it to me in the first place, if that makes any sense. I kind of liked having friends."

He took a few seconds to respond to that, seeming to enjoy her fearful attempts to gage his reaction. Finally, he smiled. It was kind of like a kiss and it made her feel dirty and disgusting all over again. "You poor child. I am so, so sorry. I didn't know that you sincerely believed they were your friends."

"But…"

"Terra, my dear, what have the Titans ever done for you?" His eye was drilling itself into her brain and she could only pray that it couldn't really _see _her.

_Beast Boy, he was so sweet when he tried to make me laugh, and it almost always worked, he made me feel like it was okay to be myself, maybe it was even good, that I didn't have to run anymore, and oh god he was so cute and I miss him, really I do, even now, especially now, because it's dark and cold and scary in Slade's headquarters and I want to go home but I don't know where home is anymore, I just wish it could be with Beast Boy. _Her hands were trembling and she pressed down hard into her palms with her fingernails to get them to stop.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Sir." she said, staring into Slade's blue eye and telling herself that it was as good as she deserved, anyway.

"Excellent answer. _Now_ you can get up."

She pushed herself off the ground with her knuckles, wobbling a little with that disgusting pins and needles sensation that comes with being in one place for too long.

"I love you, Slade." The words were pulled out of her as if they were attached to the back of her throat on a string, and Slade had just given them a strong yank. She had never said those words to anyone before, and it felt right and wrong all at the same time to say them to Slade.

"Of course you do."


	3. Deep, Want, Excuse

**Disclaimer: Teen Titans isn't mine, in case there was any question on the matter. **

**None of these are meant to be connected, by the way; I just need to stop Terra-obsessing. I am considering doing something longer and more linked, though.

* * *

**

**Deep**

(major AU, post-_Aftershock_)

He had been sifting through a stack of papers six inches thick when he heard it. A tentative knock, small and staccato. It halfway reminded him of a little kid who had been dared to knock on the neighbor's door and then run. He expected to open the door to an empty hallway but looked down at Terra, who seemed uncomfortable and quite a bit intimidated.

"Hey," he said.

"Robin, can we talk?"

_No, because Raven will kill me, absolutely kill me, if she sees me being nice to you._ "Okay. What do you want to talk about?"

Blue eyes looked past him solemnly. Ever since they had revived her, Terra had been different. There was something about her, something stuck just out of reach where he couldn't figure it out, and it had bothered him because Robin always figured everything out. She seemed…hollow? Maybe. Like a tree stump that rotted from the inside.

Terra shrugged, then sighed. "It's just some…stuff. Y'know, I can't exactly talk about it out here, not here." She gestured to the openness of the hallway.

He thought he understood, wished he didn't, and dismissed it, telling the sick feeling in his belly to go away. "Okay, sure, we can talk in my room if you want."

She nodded and followed him inside. If she had any reaction at all to the state of his room, she didn't show it. Desk buried under mountains of research, bed immaculate because it hadn't been slept in for days. Sleeping was a waste of perfectly good time. You could sleep when you're dead. And he didn't want to be dead, at least not yet, not till he put Slade in a place where he'd never come crawling back again.

Terra waited until he closed the door, hands folded in front of her and intertwined together. "I just wanted to ask you about…well, it's kind of personal."

That sick feeling was back, rising in his chest, cold and constricting. Stop it. This is not the time. She needed him to be the strong one. "You can ask me, Terra, I don't mind."

Silence. Her eyes darted from his desk to the apple core in the trash can to the posters on his wall. And finally, "YousleptwithSladedidn'tyou?"

Robin had known that she was going to ask that, had known that it was coming for a long time. And yet somehow, it was still horrifying to hear someone say it out loud, to give a name to the thing that he had ignored and buried under work and training. It made everything real again, somehow. He didn't answer, couldn't answer. Saying it would make it permanent.

"Didn't you?" She was flushing deeply now, already afraid that she had made the wrong assumption, possibly wondering how she'd ever look him in the face again.

"Yeah," he said. Damn it. Damn his honesty and damn Slade. "…but I didn't want to." _Right, because that makes it okay, Dick._

"Me neither. Okay, well, I guess I sort of did. I don't know anymore. I just…oh god, Robin, I can't tell Beast Boy, I just can't!"

He was worried that she was going to cry, and then he'd have no idea _what _to say. "You should. He wouldn't hold it against you. I think he's kind of suspicious anyway."

"Does Raven know?"

"Yeah."

"How does she…"

"We deal with it," said Robin. The truth was, they didn't deal with it, they just didn't talk about it and Raven knew not to say anything when he would go into his room for hours and study maps until his eyes didn't work anymore. That's why she was great, and someday he would be able to kiss her without closing his eyes and seeing a mask and a single, hateful eye. Or maybe not, but Raven was great anyway.

"It's…something deep, isn't it?" Terra paused, almond eyes narrowed. "Like, you think that it shouldn't matter all that much and that you should forget about it or whatever, but it's hard to forget. He can really get a hold on you."

"Slade's like that," Robin spat. "He's a real _deep_ person."

"You're wallowing in your bitterness, you do realize?" She giggled. Something of the old Terra sparked to life, then died.

"When you've been raped by Slade, I think you earn some right to wallow," he said.

"He didn't rape me. Just so you know."

"Oh. Okay."

Her mouth hung open for a second or two, then she grinned impishly but he knew that she was really more shocked than anything else. Shocked that he didn't insult her or scream at her or tell her to go away and never come back, because she was disgusting and sick and what kind of freak would ever… "You're so mature, it's nauseating, y'know," she said.

"It'll be alright, Terra." He wasn't sure which one of them he was trying to convince. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation.

"Robin?" She was so thin. He had never noticed that before. You could reach out and break her (and Slade had). It made him angry.

"Yeah?"

"Do you hate yourself sometimes, for what happened with…him?"

"Every day."

She pulled at her hair. "We have to have hope, though, I guess. Have to move on. I mean, we can't let it rule our lives, right? Right?"

He knew what she wanted him to say, but he had forgotten how. "I don't know what hope is anymore, Terra." The words came out with hollow conviction, like pebbles tossed into a well.

* * *

**Want**

(post-_Aftershock_)

Anorexic little slut.

Raven stared intensely at the book, but she had given up on trying to read it a long time ago. Hold it up anyway and move your eyes back and forth to make him think you're reading. Which book was it? She couldn't remember. The words floated unseen on the page as she watched him from the corner of her eye. He was moping. Again. Slumped against the couch, head cradled in his palm, looking at a photograph. She couldn't see what it was from here, but she knew. It was always the same. Ratty, pale hair and a puckish grin. Simple, dirty clothes and boyish hips. A perky little Brutus if there ever was one.

He had not really been happy since…the day it happened. They all thought he was the same as before, telling terrible jokes and pulling even more terrible pranks and merciless teasing, like always, but Raven knew. When he smiled, it looked like his face was about to crack. He'd laugh just as loudly as before but it was void of emotion. It was like somebody had sucked all the life out of him. Somebody had. And she had ratty, pale hair. Raven hated her. Hated her for what she had done to him. And…for what she had taken away.

Whenever the two of them were together, Raven had been polite, in that way you would behave when you knew that your thoughts weren't allowed but you couldn't let anybody else find out. That way you would be just so, disgustingly helpful while you wished that things were different. Wished that _she _would vanish into thin air along with her stupid, bony legs and funny looking face. Raven could see what was happening between them and she knew, just knew how he would hurt when it was finally over. And it _would_ be over, because Raven knew the things that never got told, the things she hid but didn't hide well enough: he wasn't her first and he wouldn't be her last. That girl had always been headed for a bad end: sometimes, she could sense the vague touch of her emotions, obscured in violent instability. No one with a mind like that would ever be normal. Raven hated when she was proven right.

Anorexic little slut. Ugly traitor. Idiot, _idiot_ girl. What had he seen in her? What did he still see in her that made him cry at night when he thought Raven couldn't sense it? Life's not fair. If she knew anything at all, it was that. Anything you want gets taken away by a psychopathic blonde. She was dead, but she still took everything away from her. And Raven bet that she'd brag about it, right now, if she'd had the voice to do it.

He was moping. Again. She couldn't see the photograph between his fingers, but she knew. The slut grinned up at the camera, waving an emaciated hand. Those hands had done disgusting things but he didn't know that, and if he did, he didn't care. Ratty, pale hair fell about her shoulders and Raven wished that it were hers. She hated blonde hair but he liked it, apparently, so that was good enough.

* * *

**Excuse**

(Immediately post-_Betrayal_.)

Walking through the mud, slightly in front of him, his huge hand pressed against the middle of her back. The force was rough and kind all at once, guiding her in some unseen direction that she was too tired to guess at. She was leading the way. And yet, she wasn't.

Around a corner and down an alley as the rain started to pick up; her shoes were caked with dried mud under fresh mud, a new layer added each time she tripped into a puddle. Experimentally, she slowed her step a little, just to see what he'd do. _Push_, went the hand. They walked a little farther, and she watched the rows of boarded up windows go by above her head. It was really strange to look up at rain: almost as if it was all falling straight down into her eyes and nowhere else. After awhile, she couldn't stand it anymore, and averted her gaze.

A few more steps, a plush looking car lurking in the darkness, glaring down at her. He opened one of the back doors as if what he really wanted to do was tear it off the hinges, but he was too good for that so he didn't. Looking at her expectantly, he pointed.

"Get in, Terra."

Looking at the door, looking at him, fighting a decision she had already made but didn't want to admit. Bad choices had a distinct feeling. So did missing someone. And how you felt when you looked into their eyes and saw their world splinter into little pieces of _you_, pieces that would never be the same and would never go away. The catch in their voice, the slumped shoulders. That kind of pain didn't really originate in your heart, like all the movies said. It was more in your throat, hard and lumpy so you couldn't swallow it.

And what had she done?

Darkness, nothing else inside that awful place but of course she was only talking about the car. Chipped fingernails grabbed the edge of the door for support as she slid into the seat, door slamming behind her as soon as she had gotten to the point where she probably wouldn't get her leg stuck in it. If this had been a horror movie, there might have been shadows. But it was too dark for that. You needed light for that. In horror movies, the little girl got in the car with the strange, evil man because she didn't know any better, not because she…well, this wasn't a horror movie, anyway.

Moving forward now, wouldn't be much longer, wonder what would happen once they stopped moving, because eventually they would have to and then it would all sink in, finally. She supposed that it was all for the best. In the end, what other choice did she have? Sometimes hurting someone was the only way to set them free. Maybe it was awful right now, but sooner or later, she'd see. Sooner or later, they'd all see.

Except for when that was nothing but an excuse, gulped down desperately in hopes that it would dissolve the lumpy thing in her throat. There was nothing _to_ see, nothing except a bad, bad little girl. The raindrops pelted down on the window, vindictively, each bead of water hitting the glass with a sound like a cry.


	4. Better, Rewind, Blessed

**Disclaimer: Teen Titans isn't mine, in case there was any question on the matter.

* * *

**

**Better**

_She_ was prettier. She'd always be so much prettier.

That was probably why, when she thought about it. There was a kind of confidence, a radiating enthusiasm for burning up life, and it made _her_ attractive in a spiritual way, a way that she just didn't have. Watching was painful. Watching when everyone liked _her _better, immediately, because that was just in her character: everywhere they went together, people always chose her. Taller, grinning with a roguish sense of mischief and flavor and fun.

And they liked _her_ better. They did. Starfire would have almost preferred the Gordanians to this.

Once, when they were seven and eleven, they'd been fighting, over some toy, and she had picked Starfire up and slammed her against the wall, getting up close to whisper in her ear.

"There are two kinds of people, little sister. People who go out and take what they want and people who just _let_ _things happen."_ She had dug her nails into Starfire's neck, punctuating those last words and burning them into her memory with pain. "Think, Koriand'r. Think long and hard about which one I am. And which one _you_ are."

She'd thought about it, but obviously she had not thought hard enough, because now the words had meaning, now when all her friends were having fun with the uncomfortably loud music that made her ears throb. In all of it, everything that had happened, Starfire had been the one who let things happen. She didn't lead; she reacted. And that was why, she told herself, that was exactly why she was miserable and lonely.

_She _didn't care about belonging. And consequently, she belonged, all on her own, without even trying. She demanded it. Took it for herself. But Starfire…Starfire just let things happen.

Well. Not tonight. Not anymore.

Blackfire was prettier. And better. So much better. But Starfire wasn't going to let things happen anymore. She'd make them happen.

If they liked her sister so much, well, they could have her. Every time there was a choice between the two of them, people always chose _her._ But this time, they couldn't choose for themselves. Starfire would choose. She wasn't being kicked out. She wouldn't wait around to be kicked out.

She'd _leave.

* * *

_

**Rewind**

_(Major AU, pre-Divide and Conquer)_

He wasn't wearing that ridiculous costume. A faded, green t-shirt and jeans: old but clean, because there was nothing about Robin that wasn't clean. It was very strange to see him as a civilian, like encoding conflicting information into a computer: the inevitable shutdown that would occur once you tried to process it. There was nothing about Robin that was ordinary. Nothing about him that was jeans-and-a-t-shirt.

The mask was off. That in and of itself could have shattered the fabric of space-time. At first, he hadn't even recognized him without it…but the movements, the hard, set expression; the power exuding from his every pore…it was unmistakable. It was him. His eyes were analytical, deep and intelligent. That had been expected, of course, though he hadn't guessed that they would be blue. Robin had very nice eyes, and it was a shame that he always wore that…_stop it. _

Robin was laughing, leaned against the bridge railing with his arm around the red-haired alien girl. It would be so easy—he could catch them both off guard and kill them, right there; or kill the girl and haul Robin away for his own uses. Or even just start a fight, make them both sweat…start him on the path of self-destructive obsession, running ten miles a day, waking up in the middle of the night nauseated and fighting back tears…

"Hi," said Robin, and it took him a few seconds to realize that the greeting was meant for him. He'd made himself known, unwittingly.

He nodded slowly, formally. "Nice weather."

After everything that had happened, Robin never would have started a conversation with a stranger, not ever, and unquestionably wouldn't be persuaded to talk about the weather. Just goes to show how different this boy was from the one that he had spent almost three years torturing. "Yeah—we're hoping it won't start raining or anything." Next to him, the girl nodded in agreement.

"Do you have a name, kid?" Both casual and antagonistic, wanting to see what he would say.

"Sorry, I don't do names. But nice to meet you, Mr.…?"

"Wilson. That's all you need from me, really."

For just a split second, he could have sworn that he saw it: recognition, deep-seated and under everything that was rational, because they had had that kind of relationship that not even time-meddling could wipe clean. And even then, he still could have started something. It would have been easy. This Robin was exponentially less paranoid: open and innocent, inexperienced and so, so not ready for a one-on-one fight with _him_. He would lose. Painfully. Spectacularly.

But it wouldn't be worth it. Wouldn't be worth what happened after. Not for him. And…somehow…even if he could…he didn't want to. This Robin was different: younger and without the lines and scars and demons. He looked…fresh.

And that looked good on him. Very good.

So Slade smiled cryptically, told them to have a nice evening, and walked away.

* * *

**Blessed**

_(post-Things Change)_

Jennifer was sure that she had failed her biology test. She'd failed it, and it was all that kid's fault, the green one, the stalker. Eukaryotic cells have all that DNA stuff, _not _prokaryotic, duh. That had been at least ten questions right there. And she'd completely screwed up photosynthesis. That had been another ten questions.

And that other question, the one at the top that was somehow more complicated than cell membranes and cytoplasm…

_Name:_

Well. That had been another two points off, anyway, because her teacher always took points away when you forgot to put your name on the paper. Except, Jennifer didn't forget. Jennifer didn't know the right answer.

She stewed about it, all through dinner with her foster parents, stared into her mashed potatoes and wondered. They'd been worried, she knew, because Jennifer always talked enough to make people's ears fall off, but she just couldn't bring herself to speak up. Because they'd want to know what Jennifer had done that day, and she couldn't say what she'd really done: because, oh god, normal people didn't run off with total strangers to eat pizza and visit giant, capital-letter-shaped houses and have mud thrown at them because apparently they were supposed to be able to _move _it. And normal people didn't get chased around by boys with superpowers…and Jennifer didn't think that normal people even had superpowers themselves.

But Jennifer didn't have superpowers. Almost-probably-definitely.

All the same, though, that was why she absolutely had to sneak out that night and just _see, _figure it out for herself after that awful boy had finally decided to leave her alone. She'd just try it once, only once, and when nothing happened she'd forget about the whole thing, but she couldn't sleep until she'd tried. It made her feel a bit badly, breaking the rules, because Jennifer had never been one to break the rules—but all the same, she had to, just had to. For some reason, sneaking out of her room was easier than she'd expected. Like when you're already done something but didn't remember doing it, so you got a funny, freaky feeling in a small, secret corner of your mind.

Jennifer's blue slippers crunched the leaves up as she padded across the backyard, towards the thing she'd been looking for: a giant pile of dirt in the neighbors' yard, the mark of a half-finished gardening project. It was clay-red, though in the nighttime it just looked gray like everything else, and it was big enough to be menacing with all the shadows and hazy darkness. It nearly came up to Jennifer's chest.

She stared at it, in challenge, wondering what on Earth the boy had meant when he'd said she'd be able to _move_ it, or whatever. Right. Just how was she supposed to do that? Jennifer felt very stupid as she stood, feet slightly apart and anchored firmly in the yellowed grass, holding out her hands to the dirt pile in a 'stop' gesture, palms out. If she could do this, it would just, like, _happen,_ right?

Maybe not. Jennifer thought about the giant, capital letter over on the rocky island, and the heart-shaped box that the boy had said he'd made for her, and anchovies (she wasn't _really _allergic) and skipping stones—and she told the dirt pile all of it, realizing after awhile that she was even speaking out loud, speaking everything that came to mind about what had happened, and about things that had never happened but somehow they were in her head to say.

A gust of wind blowing her hair. Heavy, painful lump in her throat. Deserts and mirrors and pie and swirling mud, mud everywhere, always mud, except when there was fire, oh god the fire hurt so much… And somebody, somebody big and much, much too old, doing things, _doing things_ to her and why, why, why was she doing that, she shouldn't be letting him, she wasn't that girl, she was Jenny McCormack, Jenny who was good and clean and had never even been kissed or anything…

She woke up to her foster father stroking her forehead, bright sunlight pouring into her eyes and hard ground beneath her. When he asked her why she'd come out here, what she'd been thinking to do a stupid thing like that, and what had made her faint…Jennifer found that the answer wasn't there. It was hiding, a bitter recluse somewhere underneath her forehead, a lock that had been turned the wrong way and couldn't be opened. Jennifer thought that maybe it had something to do with the neighbors' backyard, which was covered from one end to the other in a layer of mud, perfectly spread, like icing on a birthday cake. But that was stupid. What did mud have to do with anything? It was all gross and icky and it ruined your clothes.

Jennifer _did_ fail her biology test. The teacher passed them back the next day, and Jennifer looked at a poster on the wall while she chewed her pencil, the yellow one with the cats on it. She hadn't studied for this test and it was all…well, she couldn't think of anyone to blame, really. It wasn't as if anyone had been keeping her from studying. She did that all on her own. Crud.

Whenever Jennifer was about to do something disappointing, she always hated to meet the person's eyes, so she couldn't look at her teacher while the grades were being distributed. And, for some reason, she didn't want to look anyone in the eyes, ever again—Jennifer didn't think it had anything to do with the biology test. Something about mud. A binding shame. Permanent and irreversible. Jennifer wanted to go scrub her hands raw.

All the tests had been given out, all except hers, and the teacher held up a lone exam, asking with extreme vexation who had forgotten to put their name on the paper. Jennifer raised her hand slowly, almost afraid to admit it, and the anonymous paper was handed to her (she didn't look the teacher in the eyes). It was definitely her handwriting. 47 percent. Lovely. Jennifer rolled her eyes, almost unable to believe that even she would have done a stupid thing like forget to put her name on her test.

Except, Jennifer didn't forget.

Jennifer hadn't forgotten at _all. _

All through the rest of class, she ignored the finer points of adenine, thymine, cytosine and guanine. Jennifer couldn't care less about guanine, and if it was on the next test, well, she just wouldn't know the answer. Because there was another question that she wanted answered even more, the one that she couldn't stop staring at under her desk, haunting her with a spectral fear of the unknown, of the unreal, of a half-remembered horror…

_Name:_


	5. Calico, Consider, Switch

**Disclaimer: Teen Titans isn't mine, in case there was any question on the matter.

* * *

**

**Calico**

_(Humor AU.)_

He didn't know what he'd been thinking.

Well, alright, he _did._ He'd been thinking that Wally was pretty. Which he was. Sandy, red hair, mischievous eyes, slim but not skeletal like the blonde girl who looked like a Save the Children campaign. And more than that. There was something effervescently attractive about him, like a spark struck from flint and steel; he was perhaps the first he'd come into contact with who wasn't moody and fashionably tormented. He had no angst, no apologies, no oh-so-dreadful past. No. Wally was just _pretty,_ and he'd wanted him, so he took him. Or at least, that's what he thought at the time.

Of course, Slade was starting to wonder if the boy who called himself Kid Flash had gone along with the whole thing just to drive him fucking insane.

"Watcha doin'?" His self-righteous, intolerably confident voice, much too close to Slade's ear, leaning over him as he attempted to enter data into the computer.

_Ignore him and he'll go away. Ignore him and he'll go away. _

"I think your desktop's boring," Wally remarked, spinning around to lean his back against Slade's desk, palms resting directly on top of two stacks of papers. Important papers. "I can find you some good backgrounds if you want. Airplanes. Convertibles. Girls in bikinis." He seemed to consider something. _"Legal_ girls in bikinis."

"That will not be necessary, thank you." Slade concentrated on the computer screen.

He grinned. "You're right: you're not so much the typical, masculine type. I should have realized…I'll get you some pictures of kitties."

"Walter, I would appreciate it if you…"

"…cute, fuzzy little kitties with big eyes that follow you around purring like a motor boat…"

Clenching his fists, Slade listened to himself breathe in and out, trying not to look at Wally, who was rearranging the stacks of papers in a circular pattern. This had been a very poor plan. A very poor plan indeed.

"…and I think you're more of a calico type, honestly, though I'm sure some people would think Siamese for you. Hey! How about you wait right here, and I'll go get you a_ real_ kitty? It won't take me long. What kind would you like? Like I said, I really think calico…"

"Walter!" Slade immediately rebuked himself for shouting. It was an utter betrayal of his cachet, and besides, he was supposed to be the eerily composed villain. People needed something to associate him with, after all.

Wally stared at him, blue eyes round with feigned injury. "Well, you don't have to _yell _at me, you know; if you wanted the Siamese, all you had to do was ask…"

"What I would like is for you—"

"Jinx was more fun, anyway," Wally muttered. "Hey! I'm bored."

That in and of itself was a profoundly frightful concept. "What a pity."

"I know! Can I play with your weapon-thingies? You're not using them, and I like that big stick that you have." He smirked. "How very phallic of you."

_Memo: next time, go with the anorexic, blonde one.

* * *

_

**Consider**

_(Post- Season Five)_

He'd had it.

It had been four days. Four days and he'd called her every night asking if she was alright, if she needed food and all that—but she'd just said that no, she was fine. Short and succinct and very polite…but leaving no room for questions. She'd said that she just couldn't see him right now. She'd told him to wait, to give her "awhile to figure things out."

Kid Flash was about as patient as a two-year-old who really, really needed to use the restroom. And he'd had it with waiting.

It wasn't as if he had any real reason to see her, or anything. Or obligation. Or anything. There was no reason…they weren't…_committed,_ or anything like that. Kid Flash didn't do commitments. But still—he thought that maybe it had to do with the fact that she'd told him not to come. Prohibition inevitably made something vastly more attractive for him. And more than that: just that he'd been told that he couldn't…Kid Flash could do anything he wanted.

Including visiting Jinx.

Her apartment was small, run-down, in a really bad neighborhood that worried him somewhat. Because, yeah, she had more than enough ability to take care of herself…but Jinx was a _girl_ and it just wasn't right to have her living in the midst of crime and assault and drugs and everything else. Of course, it wasn't like she hadn't been around things like that for most of her life. It made Kid Flash feel a little sick as he sidestepped a broken beer bottle.

The door was locked but her window was usually kept open. He wished she'd stop doing that but she wouldn't listen. Jinx had one room on the second floor—it wasn't hard to climb up there. There was a good tree behind the building.

He slid the window shut behind him, back into its original half-open position. The room was falling apart, but physically neat, sparse because Jinx didn't exactly have many possessions. A blue hairbrush on her desk. Dusty mirror in the middle of one of the walls. Low, rumpled bed with a dozing, sixteen-year-old girl in it.

Jinx was lucky that Kid Flash was a superhero, not a criminal.

It was the realization that Jinx didn't have many possessions that made him pause when he saw the book in her hands. He didn't know she liked to read. Kid Flash didn't like books; reading meant sitting still in one place for much too long. Maybe a book on tape. But only if he had headphones for it so he could take it places. Just popping it into a car CD player wouldn't cut it, because driving was almost as bad as just sitting still. And what use did he have for a car, anyway? He was faster than any vehicle he knew of.

But Jinx's book was really funny-looking, so that's why he crept closer to her to get a better view of it as it began to slip out of her slack fingers. It was _old,_ first of all—like everything else in this apartment, except for Jinx, of course—old and heavy and thick and leathery. In other words, nothing he'd ever read in his right mind, but pretty interesting at a glance…just because Kid Flash hadn't seen many books like that before.

Wide, frightened eyes snapped open as Jinx realized that she wasn't alone and jerked away from him, breathing heavily, dropping the book onto the floor. It made a loud, important noise when it fell, as if it was not very happy about being treated with such carelessness, thank you very much.

"Heya!" He waved placatingly, hoping she wouldn't scream or anything.

Recognition dawned on her pale face. "Dammit, you! I told you not to visit right now, and you _scared _me, and…"

Kid Flash shrugged. "Well, you shouldn't really leave your window open if you don't want people to come say hello, I don't think." He poked the book experimentally with his shoe. "You reading something?"

Still cloudy with sleep, it took her a moment to piece together what he meant, but once she'd stared down at the floor and the book for a few moments, Jinx turned to him with a hard, set expression. _"Don't_ kick that."

Well, he wasn't kicking it—he was just _poking_ it; there was a difference, really now, there was. "Sor-_ry_."

Jinx hoisted herself out of bed and bent to retrieve the book, setting it on her desk with finality, almost like an apology. Kid Flash didn't think it was an apology that was meant for him. "I'm trying to figure some things out, like I said before."

"So…I'm sorry, but I just don't—how's some ancient book going to help you?"

"I don't _know,_ okay!" Her voice was suddenly tinged with a disturbing hint of desperation that he hadn't recognized before now. "I don't know anything, and I wish that I did but I don't, but that 'ancient book' just happens to be the only thing in this world that _does_ know…so you should stop making fun of it, Flash, you really should."

He took a deep breath and a step away from her, watching her bite her lip, clasping and unclasping her hands over and over. The book lay between them like a fence, like a wall, and then his eyes widened when he finally got a good look at it, at what it was—and then he knew why Jinx was upset, and maybe he sort of felt badly for what he'd said, but he hadn't _known _so even then it wasn't his fault.

A simple inscription in shiny, golden lettering, catching the light the right way so he could read it clearly: _Holy Bible_.

* * *

**Switch**

_(AU Apprentice. Disturbing.)_

Blonde hair spilled over her shoulders to cover the front of her face as she leaned over in the chair, tied to the armrests with leather straps. Her wrists were brittle and undersized, much smaller than even the boy's, and they would have been shaking uncontrollably if it weren't for the restraints.

It had been simple to capture her. A stupid mistake; a silly, teenage-girl mistake and she'd been his, the rest of them injected quite easily with the virus that would bring their death whenever he saw fit. All except one. The girl in the chair didn't know this, of course, but Slade was saving Robin for later. The others could die in flailing, undignified agony, unadorned and without fanfare. But Robin.

Well. He'd save him for _later,_ at any rate.

"I trust you've had ample time to make your decision?" Slade drummed his fingers lightly on the back of her chair, hearing her breath catch as she struggled to pull away.

Terra squeezed her huge, blue eyes shut, tears leaking out of them from the corners. "Leave me alone! Please, why can't you just leave me alone? I didn't do anything to you!"

Slade chuckled, reaching out to touch her neck, feeling her shudder. "Of course you didn't. But Terra, it's not _about _you. It's about me. Because you see, Terra…" He paused, stooping to look her in the eyes, hand gripping her chin as he brushed away her hair. "I regret to inform you that I am a very, very bad man."

She started to speak, but it became a helpless, whimpering noise that would have been more appropriate from a puppy who'd just been bathed in salicylic acid. Ineffectual, feeble muscles attempted to pull away from him. The fear in her eyes was a good look for her. Vulnerably attractive in a way that made him glad he'd decided on this…hands-on approach.

"My dear, I grow tired of this little diversion. You are well aware of your options, and the consequences of each." Slade indicated the innocuous control panel in his hands that would bring death to four rather bothersome—not to mention boring—teenagers. Of course, the real trigger wasn't the large, red button in the center of the panel; rather, a tiny switch on the underside, protected by a plastic covering. But the button was much more effective for persuading stupid, fourteen-year-old girls.

Terra squirmed in her chair. "Options, right. So basically, either I let you kill all my friends or I let you…let you…" A wild, terrified look swallowed what she was going to say next, even though Slade knew what she was going to say because he'd already explained to her, in rather explicit detail, exactly what she was going to have to do to save her friends' lives.

"Such a clever girl," said Slade. "Now. Your decision, if you would be so kind."

"I…I shouldn't…" Terra's sobs punctuated the next words she managed to choke out as she folded against the chair in defeat. "It's not fair, it's not right—and this is just bad, bad, _bad_…everything about it is…it's…" Her speech lost all coherence.

"Right again, my dear," Slade praised, smiling at her look of horror. "But then, haven't we already established that I am a very, very bad man?" He unzipped her jacket casually. "Of course, if you need some firsthand experience before you make your final decision…"

_"No!" _She cringed away from him, sobbing, screaming every obscenity she knew before finally turning to stare at him, breathing ragged, eyes swimming with defeat. "Give me the trigger."

Slade took his hands away from her, noting her sigh of relief with interest. "Ah. So you have made a decision. Excellent. It isn't necessary, however, for you to…"

"Give it here."

He stared down at her, unwavering, completely still. It was discoveries like this that he enjoyed the most: those little differences within a person that, if detected, would determine their reaction in almost any circumstances. Would put the keys in his hand, the exact levers to pull that would shatter them, make them do anything he pleased. Of course, some weren't quite as easy to conquer as Terra. He imagined that if he'd used Robin, he would have had to work harder. If the girl hadn't been around, he probably _would _have gone straight to Robin, actually—but this was better. So much better. A preliminary.

So Slade carefully loosed one of Terra's hands from the bonds, noticing the fresh blood in the middle of her palms where she'd dug her fingernails into her skin. She bled easily. Too thin. He held the panel close to her, well within her reach. Little fingers trembled over the red button until he knowingly shook his head, turning the panel around and guiding her to the _real _switch, plastic pulled back and away, exposing four lives as if they'd been dismembered on an operating table and Terra had been invited to do as she pleased with their vital organs.

"I'm gonna throw up…"

"You have five seconds, Terra, or I'll consider your choice void."

Terra flipped the switch.


	6. Promise, Bad, Skirt

**Esteemed readers: I'm trying to stretch myself writing-wise and will therefore be willing to entertain suggestions for drabbles. No promises, but I might give it a shot if you have a suggestion for a character/pairing/theme/etc. I need to learn how to write things I'm uncomfortable with.

* * *

**

**Promise**

Did it _ever_ get cold here? Even in October, even in the rapidly dimming sunlight, the humidity was terrible and the air was sticky (almost as sticky as the time Beast Boy had spilled an entire liter of soda on the kitchen floor). He really wasn't used to it. Snow, he could deal with. But when October seemed like July…it made time blurry, somehow; an inability to assimilate what he knew to be true and what it _felt _like.

But Starfire didn't seem bothered. Maybe they had perpetual summers on Tamaran. Maybe her skin was more adaptable to heat.

Maybe she was just too delighted with the park to care.

"What a wondrous object!" Purple boots balanced precariously on top of the monkey bars—except it wasn't really precarious, of course, because she'd never fall. Laughing, she executed a sharp turn and began walking backwards the other way, finally placing her foot on air instead of metal and floating down between two of the bars.

He shifted his weight, uncomfortable like he always was in situations when he didn't have a set goal to accomplish, some kind of task. Robin wasn't very good at 'hanging out,' as Cyborg loved to remind him. "I thought you'd like it. Except I'm pretty sure you're supposed to hold the bars with your hands, not walk on top of them." Not that he really had all that much firsthand experience to draw from, even as a child. Sure, most ten-year-olds would be thrilled with tire swings and balance beams—but most ten-year-olds didn't jump off buildings.

Starfire blinked at him in confusion, hovering just inches away from the sand and ducking her head to keep from hitting it on the bars. Right. Obviously. She was at least four inches too tall for that.

"…of course, you can do it any way you want," he amended hurriedly.

"Yes, I believe that I shall," said Starfire, still smiling. One hand on a wooden beam, she yelped when she held it too tightly and it started to bend in a sickening way. Patting the structure apologetically, she turned back to Robin, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "…but perhaps I should exercise more caution with these delicate objects." She paused thoughtfully. "This is a place for children, correct? It seems quite deserted."

He nodded. "It's getting dark." _Evening meant mosquitoes…_ "It would be busier in the daylight, though."

"Is this due to some aversion to darkness?"

"No; not the darkness itself, anyway," said Robin. "It's just…sometimes being outside at night isn't the safest thing." It was almost funny, and yet it wasn't. Robin knew _exactly_ what could happen if you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and she'd probably never had to worry about that. Why be afraid of guys with guns when you were practically indestructible and could shoot lasers from your hands?

Starfire frowned, realization settling some place behind her eyes. "I see: this is why we fight, I suppose. Why we will _always _fight." She gestured to two little kids being ushered into a van, their matching red, plastic backpacks contrasting with the shadows cast by the overhanging trees.

He'd always _known,_ of course, ever since the first day he met her—Starfire wasn't an idiot and she certainly wasn't puerile, but with her naiveté, it was so easy to forget… He stared at her, noticing the way she'd let go of the beam and was just standing, one hand on her hip like a challenge, hair grazing against her elbow. Even in the fading daylight, her expression was resolute and unafraid.

At that moment, Robin was _sure _that Starfire had never been afraid of anything in her life.

And then, like flipping a switch, the smile came back, full and unqualified. "Friend Robin!" She pointed to the slide, jumping up and down. "What purpose does that rounded, cylindrical tube serve?"

"Umm…"

"No matter; I shall find out for myself! Come!" Her hand was gripping his before he could blink and she pulled him along, thankfully not using even half of her strength. As he sidestepped overturned stones and tree roots, he tried to work out what it was about her, how such an ardent person could even _exist,_ let alone drag him up a ladder to a yellow, plastic slide.

Let it be known that slides were bumpy, unpleasant, even stickier than the humidity and probably teeming with bacteria. Let it also be known that it was somehow possible to forget all of these very important facts when Starfire was behind you, laughing into your hair.

* * *

**Bad**

No matter what they said, she wasn't stupid. Sure, more people had said that about her than she could possibly remember, looking down their nose at her or rolling their eyes in that look-she's-clueless-isn't-that-cute way, but they were all wrong. She knew. She'd known since the beginning.

Terra knew what he was like. She knew way more than anyone else, in fact. All of his flaws, his scars, that stuff that was going to destroy him one of these days if he didn't stop. And he wouldn't stop…he'd never stopped anything in his life. Maybe that was how it had started, come to think of it. He was there, she was there, and they just didn't stop. Of course, that wasn't exactly his kind of stubbornness. Maybe it had had more to do with Terra. Because that was what she was good at. Not stopping. In _that _way. She didn't know why it had happened—'how' was different from 'why.' He wasn't her type. He was mean and serious and bossy and she couldn't remember the last time he'd said anything friendly to her.

She didn't care.

Terra had seen his eyes. It was kind of embarrassing, actually. A few weeks ago, she'd taken the mask off herself without warning, just because she was absolutely sick of not knowing what color his eyes were. He'd stared at her in shocked horror for a split second before grabbing her wrist and twisting it—Terra didn't scream, just bit down on her tongue and silently counted how many seconds it took for him to let her go, cradling her arm to her chest when he did. It was the first time she'd seen his eyes; the only time. They were pretty and blue and haunted by something, something Terra wasn't sure she wanted to know about. Terra didn't mind not seeing his eyes anymore. There was _too much_ there, too much that he didn't know how to hide. Something about his eyes had been too much for Terra—when she watched him sleep, sometimes she wondered if there was something about _him_ that was too much. And anyway, it had really hurt when he'd twisted her arm.

Starfire had been upset. Beast Boy had laughed. Raven had been worried—and had started avoiding both of them because she got too many headaches. Cyborg…well, Cyborg had kind of freaked Terra out, honestly. Right at the start, when everyone first found out, he'd asked to talk to her. Alone. What he'd wanted to tell her became pretty clear, pretty quickly.

"Look, it's not that I think it's a bad idea, just that…Terra…"

"I like him, though," she'd said. "He makes me—he makes me feel better. I feel safe with him. Like everything's taken care of, you know?"

Cyborg had dropped his hands helplessly to his sides and looked at her in a way that made her feel kind of sick inside. "I know, and that's really…great. But, Terra. Robin is…he's…"

"Bad?"

"No," he'd breathed after a long pause. "No, he's not."

At the time, Terra had been confused. Now, she just felt empty.

They didn't put labels on it. Didn't ever use the words 'boyfriend,' and 'girlfriend.' What they had, what they did together—it wasn't boyfriend-and-girlfriend. It wasn't the kind of love that you saw on television, the kind with flowers and movies and dancing and stuff. Maybe it wasn't even love. Maybe it was just…just something.

Something bad.

Standing at the sink in the kitchen, Terra almost forgot where she was, that she was here washing dishes because it was her turn. She scrubbed at the spaghetti stain on the plate, flowered sponge rough in the palm of her hand, watching the water gurgle into the drain. When it all came down to it, she thought that maybe she'd been kind of right that day she talked to Cyborg. Robin made her feel better, made the confusion and the choices and all the lies disappear, made it all go away because he'd take care of it. Like he'd taken care of Terra's arm that one day. But maybe that was bad. Maybe some of those things weren't supposed to be taken care of. Maybe none of it was.

The stain stuck to that plate, holding on for dear life, and no matter how hard Terra tried, she just couldn't get it clean.

* * *

**Skirt**

What she remembered was the skirt.

One of those long, flowing ones with sparkles stitched into the fabric. Black. The kind that Raven couldn't wear because her legs were too short and they made her look about three inches tall. She wouldn't have even noticed her if it hadn't been for the skirt. It drew attention to her where attention wasn't warranted, because Stacy had that kind of face that you forgot as soon as you looked at it. If she were a color, she would have been beige. Shoulder-length, very dirty blonde hair, straight but not shiny. Clean, featureless, unremarkable face. Raven didn't know what color her eyes were—she didn't look closely enough to find out. Raven would never know what color her eyes were.

But the skirt spoke for Stacy, came before her and billowed around her and carried her presence when nothing else would. She was only sitting at a little table outside the café, pencil tucked behind her ear, hair in some style that Raven couldn't recall because it didn't matter, but the skirt was just _there._ It was that kind of skirt. The kind people bought because they wanted to be somebody. Because they wanted to be noticed.

Well. Stacy got noticed, alright.

A fight, a stupid fight, one that shouldn't have happened, pointless and routine. A fight and that familiar dam breaking inside of Raven, the one she hated because she knew what it was and who it came from and what it made her. Unseen hands dictating where her powers went, daggers sticking into her lungs as she struggled to breathe, struggled to focus, to do anything but what they wanted her to do…and a scream, a scream that got stopped right in the middle and everybody knew why, and a compact car on the sidewalk, smashed into the table, enveloped by Raven's signature. Then she could see again, could breathe and think and speak again, but right when it happened Raven would have given anything to just be dead. To—to switch places so Raven was the one with a compact car on her chest and Stacy was the one falling onto the pavement and screaming and screaming and screaming.

Of course, nothing had happened to Raven. Accidental death. That was what they'd said, anyway. Raven knew the truth. She was a murderer. It was all she was. It had already started. Stacy was just unlucky victim number one. Possibly, she was even lucky victim number one. Because at least Stacy wouldn't be around for when Raven murdered the _world._

Raven didn't fight again for a long time. For awhile, she didn't even come out of her room. Going into her mind was almost impossible. Guilt was one of the worst emotions. It was slippery and greasy and foul, like spoiled milk caking the back of your mind, and it whispered to you in a smug, singsong little voice all the evil you had done, the monstrous person you really were deep down. And all the appeals in the world _(I'm sorry I'm sorry I'll take it back just let me take it back oh god I'm sorry I didn't mean…)_ wouldn't erase it.

Eventually they got her out of her room, and then they got her out of the Tower, and finally, finally, they got her back to doing her job. Raven tried, tried to be careful, but how could she when she didn't know which facets of her powers were causing the blackouts, the lapses of control, the blinding rage—how could she? And Stacy's skirt would always be right behind her eyes, superimposed on the crime scene. Stacy's bloody skirt, mutilated and unrecognizable like the rest of her, and it was the first thing she saw when she woke up in the morning and the last thing she saw before closing her eyes.

The shopping bag bounced against Raven's leg in a rhythm that was almost somber. The weather reminded her that she didn't live in a movie: it was spitefully hot and ironically bright, sun beating down on her back as if it dared her to be sad. In a movie, there would have been a dramatic downpour, or a mournful snowstorm for this particular scene as the young heroine _(villain…)_ trudged through the graveyard to make peace with her demons. Right. Please. Try making peace with your demons when _you're _the demon.

The demon who was going to kill everyone.

Stacy's grave was forgettable. Half-hidden behind a monument and a rusty bench, low and unadorned, simple lettering with too few years between the dates. Commonplace. Unobtrusive. So unremarkable it was remarkable. Like Stacy.

Raven had always wanted to be normal. She supposed Stacy might have dreamed about being like Raven. That was why she wore the skirt—it made her special, dressed her up as something she could never be. Made people look at her. They were only seeing the skirt when they did, of course, and in another life Raven might have rolled her eyes and muttered something about being a slave to fashion, but somehow, it didn't matter when she was staring down at the slab of granite.

Reaching into the bag, Raven clutched at the black fabric like a lifeline, embroidered sparkles iridescent in the sunlight. For a moment, she just held it, staring, wondering how stupid she'd become to think that this would do anything—because hadn't she expected it to somehow elicit a miracle? Like some stupid resurrection spell. Raven couldn't raise the dead. So what did she think this would accomplish when—

Raven only looked back once over her shoulder, burning into her memory the neatly folded skirt at the foot of Stacy's grave, a bitter peace offering that would never be enough.


	7. Didn't, Balance, Ordinary

_I got on a brief femmeslash kick, it seems which explains the first two fragments. Last one is in the universe of one of my mammoth fics, Bright Line. 'Cos we needed some fluff. ;)

* * *

_

**Didn't**

_(Post-Aftershock)_

Terra was not pretty. She was sad and sick. Long, spindly legs and arms coupled with oversized hands and feet made her look like a puppy that hadn't grown into its own skin yet. A mop of stringy, lifeless, blonde hair overpowered her tiny body in a way that could never be considered glamorous. Her face was innocent but plain. Innocent face. The rest of her wasn't so innocent.

Terra was not her type. She giggled too loudly—the fact that she giggled at all was more than enough proof, anyway—and did cartwheels in the living room when she was happy and watched Laguna Beach. She was messy. Once, she'd spilled hot chocolate all over Raven, then tried to clean it up before she could push her away, and ended up smearing it into her cloak. It had burned.

Terra was not intelligent. Anyone could have seen what she didn't, seen the man for who he was and not some warped Prince Charming encased in metal, not some…Raven didn't even know how Terra felt about him, actually. Didn't know what synapses hadn't connected properly in the girl's brain to cause the attachments that ran deep, deep like the blood in her veins, deep like the places in Terra's mind that hid the secrets she'd never tell anyone, shameful and filthy and drenched in sweat.

But there was no Prince Charming. There was no castle and no spell and Terra would never wake up. It was her own damn fault.

Raven was not naïve. She'd known, right from the start she'd _known,_ and she could remember a hushed conversation with Robin that first night Terra returned, with the unspoken doubt hanging in the air between them as if not acknowledging it would make it go away. Terra's shrill laughter and the cocky grin on her face as she commanded the earth with newfound precision had never convinced Raven. Emotions didn't lie, and Raven understood emotions. Terra could never persuade her that she was anything less than an attention-seeking valley girl, or anything more than an insecure child playing at being a hero. But she didn't need to persuade her.

Raven was not a romantic. She only remembered Valentine's Day because of the unending parade of red and pink repeatedly shoved in her face, she shuddered at the mindless, prepackaged sap at the movie theater, and she did not believe in love at first sight. She and Terra had never fallen in love and they never would; they fell in distrust. In misery. In spite. Something else entirely. It didn't matter. What mattered was the growing realization that the girl had coiled herself around Raven like a parasitic vine, because as she began to understand the little bundle of hypocrisy, Raven saw something entirely too similar to herself. And it wouldn't go away just because she said that it didn't exist, or shouldn't exist, or that Raven was _different _because it was all her father's fault that she couldn't control her powers, that the way she shut herself in her room at night with a book wasn't anything at all like Terra's abhorrent flirting with Beast Boy. That the sham of a life the girl built for herself, the life where she was somebody who mattered, somebody who was loved, somebody who wasn't afraid _all the time_…it was nothing like Raven.

Raven was not a victim. The fight in the mud hadn't been an exercise in role-playing a helpless damsel. She'd wanted to _hurt _Terra, to her core, past superficial injuries and into the vulnerable facets of her mind that she thought were kept private, the ones that she broadcast when she slept. There was something sinister and attractive about hurting Terra, and so she'd surrendered to the abandon, the rage, the unbound cruelty because it was the only way to communicate just how hurt _Raven _was, in ways that Terra couldn't or wouldn't ever understand. Kissing Terra's jaw or snapping it in half, running her fingers through her muddy hair or shoving her down into the dirty water and waiting for the moment when she had to inhale and the life left her eyes—it was all the same. And even now, weeks later, Raven would sometimes lie awake in bed wondering what Terra's arms would have felt like around her waist, wondering what she'd spiraled into and why, what monster the girl had awakened within her—but nothing that hadn't already been there. She would turn over onto her stomach and press her face into her pillow, counting out the breaths until she could sleep and dream about blue eyes and cartwheels and sushi mixed with ice cream.

The blue eyes were gray, now. Open forever, upturned in that typical, "It-wasn't-me" stare. Sometimes, Raven went down there—she never told the others because they wouldn't believe her, but she did, and not to spray paint the statue or throw rocks at it, either, as the uninitiated might conclude. She never said anything. Just silently dared the rock to come to life, to shudder and shed away the stone tomb and reveal a stupid little girl who liked Britney Spears and cried when someone killed a mosquito.

Raven was not in love. And Terra was not coming back.

* * *

**Balance**

_(AU during season two)_

It might be the Mall of Shopping, but that wasn't what Terra was doing.

She zipped up her blue purse, holding up the coin like some kind of artifact. "And see, what you do is you throw it in the fountain and make a wish, and if it hits the spray it'll come true."

Starfire grinned down at the penny in her own hand. Eyes focused in concentration, she gripped it in a fist, aimed straight for the fizzing column of water—and Terra cringed, bracing herself for what she knew was about to be a Bad Thing. Sure enough, she was right. The penny sailed right through the fountain, ricocheting off the far wall and smacking a mannequin right in the face, bouncing viciously a few times before coming to rest in some unseen corner of the mall.

"Umm…nobody saw that," said Terra.

Taking Terra's hand imploringly, Starfire mirrored her look of horror. "I must apologize; it seems that once again I have failed to adequately measure…"

"No, no, it's fine." Terra reached into her purse again, pulling out a fistful of pennies and presenting them to her girlfriend. "You can have as many tries as you want; that's the rules."

Of course, Terra didn't really know what the "rules," were, exactly, because it wasn't like she had all that much experience with shopping or malls or fountains or…or _girls._ Whenever Terra walked into a mall, her head was filled with the sick pounding of crumbling concrete, an echo of all the things she'd done when she couldn't control, couldn't stop, couldn't do anything she was supposed to. When she was on her own, at the very beginning, she would go into malls sometimes. She'd look into the stores at all the clothing that she couldn't buy—the frilly little sweaters and socks with hippos on them, stuff that normal girls wore. And after she got tired of that, she'd go to the food court, and if there was a fountain she'd find it; Terra would sit there, sometimes for hours because what else was she going to do with her time, and hope that somebody would leave a piece of a cinnamon roll or some fries so she could grab them.

And as for girls. _Girls._ Well. That was more Starfire's thing. Starfire knew all about that kind of stuff. She'd said that she liked boys, too, but sometimes she liked girls, and she especially liked Terra. At first, Terra hadn't been very good at it and she'd worried that Starfire would hate her, or whatever, but Starfire was quite eager to show her…well, everything. She liked teaching, she said.

Except today, because Terra had to teach Starfire about fountains and pennies and wishes. The second time Starfire tried to throw the penny, it sailed just beyond the fountain, tumbling to the floor on the other side and rolling underneath a potted plant. But the third time, she got it. Right into the middle of the fountain, slipping away invisible and mysterious; Terra loved to watch when somebody threw one perfectly.

"How delightful!" Starfire leaned against the damp tiles as if trying to see where the penny had gone, and the way her shirt moved with her made Terra feel funny. "…Friend Robin says that this sort of behavior is childish and ineffectual."

Terra knew that she must be quoting him, because Starfire would never say anything like that, wouldn't have the words in her head, even. Slipping her hand through Starfire's fingers, Terra grinned mischievously. "Well, friend Robin's not here right now, is he?"

"No, I suppose he isn't."

They were different, the two of them. Starfire was tall and gorgeous and looked like a fashion model; and that bright red hair that Terra couldn't stop touching if her life depended on it; and the way her eyes got round and full when she was happy. Terra was little. And skinny. And…little. She'd called herself ugly a fair bit, but two weeks ago Starfire had asked her to please not do that anymore, so she was trying to stop. And she supposed that maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was just different than Starfire. Blonde and flat-chested and a foot shorter, but just different, all the same.

"Terra, I believe it is your turn to throw the monetary units into the fountain." Starfire didn't call her "friend Terra." She'd stopped since…since the day they'd been baking cookies and Terra had gotten dough all over her cheek when she wiped her face with the back of her hand…and Starfire had moved to clean her off but somehow ended up kissing her instead…

Releasing her hand, Terra put down her purse. "Okay; I'm pretty good at this, so watch out." She narrowed her eyes and tossed, smirking triumphantly when the coin sailed through the spray, disappearing.

"Most excellent!" Starfire clapped her hands. "What did you wish for?"

Blushing, Terra shifted and drew the toe of her shoe along a crack in the floor. "Oh, umm…" In front of her, three teenage girls were making stupid faces at a photo booth, their laughter giving her strength, strength for what she needed to say, for something.

"I wished that we'd…that we'd always be together."

Suddenly serious (Terra had had to get used to the total, uncompromising changes in her mood), Starfire turned to face her, one hand on her shoulder, almost like an apology. "Terra…such an attitude will only bring you sorrow."

She squinted up at her. "Huh?"

But Starfire was not entertaining questions. "Allow me to reveal my wish," she continued brightly, exercising her trademarked strategy of daring the problem at hand to challenge her (it never did, not that Terra saw). "I wished for us to be together, in this moment, and to be happy. 'Always,' is a troublesome word. And I do not enjoy making wishes that may prove to disappoint me."

It kind of made her feel cold and frightened, and yet kind of not—how could it, with Starfire's smile and her perfect skin and the way her voice just made Terra so _happy_… And maybe…maybe she was kind of right. Maybe it was enough, just this moment, just _this,_ together, with sunlight through the huge windows accenting the water droplets clinging to their hair.

You couldn't be frightened when Starfire was around. Terra was frightened and Starfire…she soaked up Terra's fear and absorbed it so you couldn't even tell it had ever existed. That's how they were. Terra could explain things like fountains and pennies and how not to destroy a mall with a superhuman throwing arm, but Starfire had to explain the other stuff, the stuff about belonging and need and happiness and comfort and…

"Star, I…"

Starfire smiled. It was sweet and serious and a little bit solemn. "Might we partake in some of the iced cream? I have learned which monetary units are appropriate for such purchases through much studying of…"

Terra was kind of glad she interrupted. Nothing good could have come on the end of that sentence. And Starfire knew that. She took Terra's hand in hers and started talking about the differences between five and ten dollar bills. Terra still maybe felt like she wanted to say something—it was sort of stuck in her chest like a cough that lingered after you'd been sick for a long time—but she was able to keep it down.

So Terra stopped thinking about whatever it was and kissed Starfire, right in the middle of the discussion about George Washington's face on the dollar.

* * *

**Ordinary**

_(Bright Line universe, after chapter 13)_

Raven was a fairly observant person—mostly because she liked to stay in the background and just see how others interacted. It was usually enough, for her, and she was quite good at picking up the little details. So that's why Raven would have been embarrassed if he'd happened to ask her what she thought about the movie they were watching. Because Raven definitely hadn't been watching the movie; she'd been watching Robin

Before all this, you never could tell just by looking if he was okay. He shoved it to the back of his mind so the uncertainties and the fear and the doubt were hardly visible. Far too much practice had led him to become far too good at it. Now that she'd finally gotten the mask off (sort of—he still clung to it when he was with anyone else but her, but it was better than nothing) he'd become much easier to read. Robin didn't have any practice with keeping his eyes impassive, because he'd never had to, so she could usually tell exactly what he was feeling without having to reach out with her gift. For awhile, that had been a good thing, because Robin hadn't appreciated being forced to share with her in such a personal way. Though actually, he'd told her the other day that he _liked_ it now, that it felt good in a way that he had trouble articulating.

Of course, Raven didn't exactly mind that she'd gotten him to take off the mask. He had great eyes.

Robin was alright, though, and he was still alright when she cautiously leaned against his shoulder. When she touched him physically, he would immediately tense up and get a complicated, conflicted look in his eyes…and Raven knew what he was fighting. But she didn't see that now, and it occurred to her that this was one of the first times she hadn't seen it. Sure, maybe he was just absorbed in the movie but she was convinced it was more than that. The way he way he wrapped a hesitant arm around her waist told her that it was more than that.

It almost made her angry: that something so commonplace for anyone else was an incredible event for him. She drove the thought away, telling herself that it was _not_ the time for that, that if Robin was okay with the lack of justice than she should be, too. _One day._ One day when she was older and stronger, _he_ would pay. She couldn't worry about that now; Robin needed her right now.

He nudged her and asked her a question about one of the actors.

Raven looked up at him sheepishly. "I…sorry, but I wasn't really…paying attention. Can you—can you tell me what's going on?"

Grinning, he moved his arm into a more comfortable position, said that he'd figured she wasn't really watching, and launched into an elaborate explanation of what she'd missed. Raven told herself that she had to actually listen to the words he was saying, instead of thinking about how great it was that he was saying them—here—to her—smiling and relaxed and happy.


	8. Lazy, Oil, Fourteen

_Crack pairing slash and Robin angst. You know you love it._

* * *

**Lazy**

_(Massively AU)_

Robin probably hadn't meant to fall asleep, but he was more than halfway there anyway. He'd been up all night, researching something or analyzing something, or whatever really boring things that Robin did when he said he had "work to do." It usually meant that he'd be in his workroom forever, and that's what had happened this time. Now, it was late enough for Wally to have decided that getting out of bed wasn't a crime against nature, but early enough that he wouldn't mind dozing off again. Not that there was a time of day at which Wally _would _mind dozing off. Especially with Robin.

He'd found Robin in his room, on his bed, wedged between several stacks of paper, staring sleepily into them as if they'd tell him the meaning of life if he could just keep his eyes open for five more minutes. The mask was off, which was unusual but not astonishing—Robin got headaches when he worked for too long, and taking the mask off helped, though obviously he never did it if he thought there was any chance of somebody being around. So it was usually safe behind his locked door. Except Wally knew the combination. And Robin wasn't trying to hide from him.

Wally made his presence known with an exasperated sigh, even though Robin would have already known who was in his room, because he was psychic like that. "Baby, _what _are you doing?" He said it in the voice he usually used whenever he thought Robin had gone slightly insane.

Robin didn't look up. "Working," he muttered, moving one of the papers in front of him to the stack at his side.

"Which was the same thing you told me last night, when you glued yourself to your computer. Ever thought about maybe coming up with a few different ways to say it, just for variety?" He took a few steps into the room, letting one hand fall onto the edge of Robin's bed, feeling himself smile.

Silence answered him as Robin sifted through the papers, hunched over them with his legs crossed.

Wally poked his knee. "You still trying to come up with something, or was this your idea of variety?"

Then, Robin _did _look at him, and seeing him without the mask was so rare that it almost distracted Wally—distracted him from what he was trying to do, what he was going to say next, maybe why he was here and what his name was and some other things that didn't matter at all… But he did hear the words, intense and annoyed but hard to take seriously when they were stretched around a yawn, "Wally, I _have _to get this done. I'm sorry, but this is very important and it should have been done days ago. Maybe we can do something later, but you need to just go watch cartoons with Beast Boy or something if you're bored, because—"

He leaned a second hand on Robin's bed, cutting the other boy off with a laugh.

Robin glared. It made the blue eyes even _more_ distracting. _"What,_ Wally?"

He swallowed, then made himself talk. "I was just thinking that whatever's written on those papers couldn't possibly be as interesting as me. And that we're in the wrong places, me and the papers."

"Uh huh," said Robin, turning back to his work. "And why that's funny, I'll never—_Wally!" _

Grinning, Wally innocently laid the stack of paper on a table, the stack that had been in Robin's lap a second prior. The boy really needed to learn that some people had superpowers. Reaching his hand up slightly, he turned the lights off, and an instant after that he was back at Robin's side, fixing him with a disarming smile. "You gonna give me the rest or do I have to take 'em?"

For a moment, it seemed as if Robin was going to protest, but it got lost somewhere between the second yawn and the way his eyes blinked several times in an attempt to stay open. "You're incorrigible, you know that?" It wasn't an objection, just a formality. Robin had to complain about anything that wasn't horrifically uncomfortable; it was part of some kind of bizarre code of law he insisted on following.

Wally nodded sympathetically. "Yep, and I even know what that means." He shook his head, taking the rest of the papers from Robin's hands. "Yeah, I know, don't worry; I won't mess up your life's work or something." Well, he didn't exactly organize the stacks perfectly, but it was good enough and Robin was way too tired to critique.

He was also too tired to say anything when Wally crawled into Robin's bed and kissed him, smiling against his mouth before tugging on his hand to get him to lie down. Robin broke the kiss and made a noise halfway between a growl and a sigh, but he let himself be dragged, actually leaning into the contact when Wally put his arms around him, Robin's back warm against his chest. He felt Robin relax almost immediately, breath catching in his throat for a moment when he realized how _tired _his boyfriend was. Really, Robin was almost always tired because he'd never sleep—and when he did, it was for a few hours at his desk—but this was a deeper kind of tired that meant he'd been staying up and abusing himself for days and days, and _why_ hadn't Wally noticed sooner?

After a minute of silence, when he'd thought that Robin was asleep, he heard the sleepy mumble, nothing more than a formality, "I'm only doing this to placate you. I hope you know that."

Wally kissed the back of Robin's neck. "'Kay, baby. You can blame it on me and my incorrigible laziness."

"Uh huh." His hands covered Wally's, and then the other boy didn't say anything else.

Well. Wally wasn't one to protest spending the day in bed.

* * *

**Oil**

_(Post-Season Five)_

He'd thrown it away. He'd been immeasurably lucky that it was even his to end, and maybe he'd never find anything like her again, and he'd thrown it away. That's what they told him. That's what the look on Beast Boy's face said after the six seconds that it had taken for half the world to find out. The Break Up. It merited capitalization. It merited italics, really. Because he was the idiot who couldn't see, couldn't appreciate what he had—what he somehow had, because he'd probably never deserved it anyway, but she was kind and generous and saw the best in everyone, and out of the goodness of her heart, she'd tried to pass some of that elegance to him. And he'd thrown it away.

At least, that's what they told him.

She'd started out beautiful. In the beginning, across three months or several dimensions or however far it would take before he'd find a time where he felt that way—in the beginning, he'd been fascinated. He held onto every word she spoke, not because he'd never heard stilted English before, but because he'd never heard it spoken with such…_confidence_. She didn't care that she didn't know the difference between cotton balls and cotton candy, that the proper uses of contractions eluded her, that she thought "chill out" meant to stick your head in the refrigerator. For Starfire, the world was as it was, everything in it up to and including herself, and she did not apologize for the way things were. He'd met people who felt that way, too, of course—he'd lived with one of them. But Bruce didn't apologize because he refused to. Starfire didn't because she didn't know that it was _possible_. It wasn't that she was secure, exactly; it was that she didn't know how to be insecure.

And he'd liked that. He'd been drawn to it like a child to the glowing candles of a birthday cake. Had listened intently for hours on the roof while she told him about her home, horrified to discover that his mind often wandered when she spoke, especially when the wind blew her hair. He'd considered it his personal duty to protect her from everything about the planet that she didn't understand—and discovered over and over that said protection was unneeded, though not unappreciated.

They could understand each other through math and science. She used different symbols and different names, but it was the same language underneath; it was comforting, somehow, to know that even across light years, the laws of physics still applied. Starfire enjoyed learning their formulas—and, sometimes, chucking over the mistakes and holes in the theories—and they'd once spent an entire afternoon discussing gravity and how it applied to flight.

And then that afternoon when suddenly they weren't just discussing anymore, when their hands touched, and he'd wrapped an arm around her waist and he couldn't remember who had kissed whom, but it didn't matter then and it definitely didn't matter now.

She'd started out beautiful. She was beautiful when her eyes went pupil-less, clouding over with green as she clutched energy in her palm during battle, when she stood over the sink licking mustard off her fingers, when she drifted off to sleep next to him while they were watching a movie. When her hair spilled over the couch while she read a book and he couldn't keep his hands out of it. The way her laugh erased everything wrong about his day. All the things that, rationally, he knew he'd once felt, but were at best a distant memory.

There was only one rational explanation. It was him. It was his fault—there was something abnormal about him, there had to be, because anyone else wouldn't feel this way, and if he was better, he wouldn't be lying on his back staring at the ceiling, wondering _why_. Why couldn't he be what he needed to be, why couldn't he be happy with what he should be happy with…why couldn't he at least be properly _sad_ after it was gone?

That was the problem. He couldn't be sad. Something was broken inside of him because he couldn't be sad. That's what they told him.

He couldn't be what she wanted. He wasn't enough for her, wasn't what she needed or even what she thought she needed. And if it hadn't worked with _Starfire, _it couldn't work with anyone, and he shouldn't try. Shouldn't hurt somebody else because of all the things that were wrong with him. The things that made him pretend that he had somewhere to be so he wouldn't have to go out with her, to forget to call her even though he never forgot anything, to go down to the gym and run and run as fast as the treadmill would go because he just wanted to get _away_…He couldn't be what she wanted.

Starfire was in love with a person who didn't exist, and that was why he'd had to at least try to make the right words appear in the places that he needed them, even though he'd failed at that, too. And when she'd calmly taken over for him and did the thing he was too cowardly to do. When she'd turned and walked out of his room, footsteps noticeably heavier than they'd ever been, leaving him standing there like a moron and wondering which one of them had been dumped. It didn't matter, just like it didn't matter which one of them had been kissed. It just happened. It just…had to be done.

He'd thrown her away, made the biggest mistake of his life. That's what they told him. But no matter how many times he told himself that he should cry, there weren't any tears.

* * *

**Fourteen**

_(Pre-series)_

It had been a stupid fight, anyway. Yeah, he admitted it: stupid. And, alright, he hadn't really meant it. And yet he did. The truth was…actually, he didn't know what the truth was. What he did know was that his room was _big, _and that lying on his stomach with a pillow over his head wasn't going to make it any smaller. That had stopped mattering five years ago, when he'd gotten used to living with the guy who owned half the world—but, for some reason, it mattered again. For some reason, it made him feel like a trespasser, despite how irrational that was. Because, really, it was _his _room.

But it wasn't.

Maybe he should be relieved that he could argue with Bruce, because it meant that they were comfortable enough with each other to fight without fear of permanent consequences. At first, he'd been afraid to say anything that Bruce wouldn't like—which usually meant that he didn't say anything at all (because when a large part of you wanted to call him "your highness," talking back wasn't exactly the first thing on your mind). But now at least they could have stupid fights. Why that was important—or why it made things better—he didn't know.

They'd been fighting about carelessness. Or negligence. Or whatever ridiculous label Bruce wanted to put on it this week. What it meant was that he'd failed to tell Bruce every single thing he was doing at every single moment, because he wasn't trusted to handle a simple decision. And he was tired of it, so he just hadn't answered when Bru—when _Batman _had asked where he was for the _fifth_ time that night, and he was _fine, _there had never been any danger at all, but he'd endured a twenty-seven minute lecture for it (he'd spent more time _watching _the time than listening).

So maybe it would have been easier if he'd just answered. But how would he ever get better if he kept _answering?_ Kept letting Bruce make decisions for him. Kept being nine when he was really fourteen—when Bruce wouldn't _let_ him be fourteen.

It would be easier. But Richard didn't do things because they were easy. Except lately, he wasn't doing _anything, _of course: and he never would, not if Bruce had his way.

He didn't move when he heard the knock on his door. He knew who it was from the sound. Alfred's would have been softer.

"Go away."

Bruce didn't open the door, but he didn't leave, either. "Did you finish your calculus?"

"Yes. And I finished what you wanted me to do tomorrow, too. _Now_ will you go away?"

"Don't speak to me in that tone."

He sat up, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the headboard and glared at the door, as if daring it to open. "Maybe I wouldn't, if you wouldn't speak to _me_ in _that _tone."

A long pause. "Dick—"

"Why don't you just start calling me Robin all the time? That's all I am to you, anyway. Of course, I bet I'm not even good enough for that." He took a breath, words that he knew he shouldn't say burning in his throat, and when he continued it was someone else who was saying them, a character in a movie—but not him, not here, not to Bruce. "I _never _want to see you again!"

The next pause was longer. The doorknob turned, halfway, and Richard bit his lip as he watched it, silently because he wasn't sure what he wanted to happen next. Finally, it spun back into place with a soft _click,_ the door remaining closed.

"Alright," Bruce stated. "We'll talk about that tomorrow. Goodnight."

And then he was gone.

Frozen into some strange state of numb satisfaction, Richard watched the glowing clock on his desk count out the minutes—and when he reached behind him to grab one of his pillows and hold it against his chest, it took every ounce of strength he had. He listened to his breathing, fast and light and shallow, and every minute that he stayed on his bed and didn't go find Bruce was one more light year away from fixing whatever had broken, whatever had finally snapped in half from behind his door, and all the remorse in the world would never fix it. But he didn't feel remorse. Not really. He didn't know what he felt—just what he didn't feel. Things that used to matter, but somehow weren't important anymore, things he _wished_ could be important—but wishes weren't real, he'd found that out when he was nine, night after night of wishing on falling stars that he could just wake up and his parents would be alive, and then he'd finally given up after number twenty-seven.

He tried to remember nine. Staring at the new clothes and swearing that he'd pay it all back when he was bigger. Telling Bruce that he was glad Batman was around because he got scared sometimes, and wondering what the man was hiding behind his smile. Watching television with him on the couch and falling asleep in his arms. But it was gone, and it didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered when Richard couldn't summon the will to get up and open the door and tell Bruce that he didn't mean it.

Because it would be a lie. He _did _mean it.

Except, it scared him. He meant it, and he wouldn't have taken it back in a thousand years, but something about the way the doorknob had shuddered back into place…it was wrong, it wasn't supposed to happen, and it scared him. Something had happened, something had changed, just right then, and even though it might not happen right away—he knew that he could never take it back. And he wasn't going to be nine anymore, not ever again, all he was going to be was fourteen…but Richard didn't know if even fourteen was old enough to handle what he'd done. What they'd both done. It was hollow and helpless and it was the first, little hole that would keep getting bigger and bigger, the vine that wrapped around and squeezed until there was no more life left, and it was slow, quiet, subtle, but always there, always killing, just under the surface where nobody thought to look.

He didn't sleep that night. He didn't know what they would be talking about tomorrow, but if it had anything to do with never seeing Bruce again, Richard didn't want it to come. He wanted to hold onto every bit of 'today,' that he could, watching the glowing, red numbers until the last sliver of quiet slipped away, and Bruce came to get him.


	9. 100 Word Drabbles, part one

_You get ten instead of three this time, because I'm doing these next few for a Livejournal drabble challenge. I'm using the themes I've been given, and all must be exactly 100 words. I claimed Robin/Kid Flash. Are you surprised? Feedback is especially appreciated because I am trying to learn how to write romance—what I'm doing right, what I'm doing wrong…point it out to me so I can see it! Thanks!_

* * *

**Forever**

He had work, and it was _important_, no matter how much Wally was hanging over his computer, fingers trailing along the back of his neck, just below his hairline, other hand flipping through the papers on his desk and commenting on how boring they were.

"_How_ long are you going to stay here?"

"Till you leave with me. Meaning, about forever."

He turned to look at Wally, meaning to pull away from the touch. Somehow, it didn't quite work. "Are you going to count to infinity, too?"

Wally bent to kiss his cheek. "You. Are _really _cute when you're pissed."

---

**Ring**

"Seven days."

"Uh huh. Not interested."

"No, seriously, _seven days."_

"Wally, who told you that we were watching _The Ring?"_

A long pause. "…Cyborg." Cyborg who was trying valiantly not to laugh, but in the process of failing.

Robin wasn't sure if he was addressing the others in the room, the voice on the cell phone, or both. "I didn't even like it anyway, you know. Do you want me to list the plot holes in alphabetical order, or chronological—"

"No, _seriously! _I'm coming home in _seven days,_ okay?"

"Uh huh. Great save."

"Knew I shoulda called Beast Boy."

---

**Movie**

"…I'm not telling him."

He felt a sigh from the boy lying next to him. "Could we maybe not use cuddle-time as argument-time? Please?"

"I'm not."

Wally rubbed the back of his hand. "What are you afraid of?"

He closed his eyes, wanting to focus on the touch, but it was washed out by reasons—fights and screaming and slammed doors, and the cold disapproval that he knew would come, a horror movie on fast-forward, and he knew the ending but that wouldn't make it less painful.

Robin shuddered and slid closer to Wally. "Of what I know he'll say."

---

**Emotion**

It was what Bruce had taught him not to have. Or at least, to compartmentalize, to quarantine away for later analysis, where emotion wouldn't tangle up in work, wouldn't slither into your thinking, your judgment. He'd taught him that a nine-year-old could face down six men with guns, could keep the fear and pain away until afterwards—afterwards, when he'd cry himself to sleep in Bruce's lap.

It was what Robin still didn't have when Wally grabbed him by the hands and his heart beat faster. Or at least, what he couldn't access under six years of quarantines and labels.

---

**Snow**

He'd only wanted to bake cookies. To be _nice._ And maybe he wasn't the greatest at pouring (it was the measuring cup's fault).

Robin definitely wasn't the greatest at forgiving people for making a mess.

And he definitely wasn't amused when Wally brushed the flour onto the floor, and it dotted the linoleum like snow. Like when you're a little kid, and you stay up all night hoping that school will be cancelled, and then you finally see the first flakes gleaming on the lawn.

But he was definitely cute when Wally smeared some of the flour across his nose.

---

**Sky**

Once, he'd been hers. It hadn't lasted very long. _This_…she didn't know how long it would last, either, and she didn't know if she wished for it to end. She wanted him to be happy. _This _was a high price to pay.

But she would send those thoughts away, float them in between one of the clouds as the sunshine warmed her skin, the salty ocean below her making flight easier, the smile that she stretched across her face just good enough to fool her body into keeping her airborne.

Starfire had the sky. But the sky couldn't kiss her.

---

**Book**

He'd been studying statistics. Something about standard deviation. Maybe. Or physics. But the book was slipping from his grip, whatever it was, slipping as his other hand wrapped around Wally's neck, and then he was pressed against his desk, and Wally was impossibly warm, impossibly _close._ And then they were kissing, and he wasn't sure who started it, but it didn't matter very much—stopped mattering entirely when Wally's fingers rubbed against his thigh, and the book (Why was he holding a book?) fell with a noise loud enough to startle both of them.

He gestured hopelessly. "Statistics. I think."

---

**Stars**

"You think it's a bad idea?"

He knew he'd find her on the roof. She'd been coming up here a lot lately; said that it was the only place to escape the headaches. The headaches that were his fault.

"I think it isn't my business."

"But I'm asking you."

Silence. Her face tilted up to the stars, the fluorescent lights from the roof hugging her cloak.

"Raven?"

She blinked and pulled back her hood, the hero morphing into the girl as the violet eyes focused on him. "I can't tell you that, Robin. And neither can an analysis. Just you."

---

**Alive**

He'd finally figured out why Robin could fight without superpowers. Because he gave more than he could give, _made _himself find the strength that wasn't there, and then, somehow, it was—because he willed it. Because he wouldn't let weakness and humanity and blood and broken bones stop him. Wouldn't.

It made Wally proud of him, but it also made him _have _to touch him after the fights; to kiss him with intensity that frightened, overwhelmed; to fold Robin into his arms, feeling the feverish heartbeat as if it were inside his own chest, reminding him that he was alive.

---

**Love**

Wally said it, but Robin didn't. Couldn't. It made whatever empty response he came up with immeasurably awkward, but the other option was silence, and that was worse. Anyone else would have been embarrassed, and maybe stopped, but Wally didn't know how to be embarrassed.

Sometimes, it got stuck in his throat, took up space there, made it impossible to speak—when Wally held him, fingers weaving through his hair, and "I love you," fell out of the other boy's mouth, innate and sincere and easy.

And then it was gone, leaving behind an emptiness he was never prepared for.


	10. 100 Word Drabbles, part two

_More Robin/Kid Flash 100 word drabbles--same as in the previous chapter. Some of these are connected, but they're located together so I think it'll be easy to figure out. Most have nothing to do with each other. Comments and thoughts welcome!_

* * *

**Language**

"So she kissed you?"

"Yeah. To learn language."

He trailed his fingers along the collar of Robin's shirt. "Right, _that's _what they call it on Tamaran."

"Seriously, she explained it to us—well, Beast Boy left the room at 'chemical transduction,' but…"

Wally took a step forward, wrapping his other arm around Robin's waist, and he couldn't remember the rest.

"So. Did you like it?"

"Did I _what?"_

"The kiss. Did you like it?"

Robin blinked. "God, Wally, it was in the middle of a battle; I don't _remember!"_

"Then it doesn't count." And he closed the distance between them.

---

**Animal**

He'd never stopped thinking about it. The silent sickness that bled into everything he was, everything he stood for, corrupted and destroyed and mangled it in the thrill of breaking the laws he was supposed to be protecting, outwitting the people he was supposed to be helping, reckless and uncivilized, like some kind of animal. It. Everything he'd been taught not to be.

He didn't know if Bruce knew that he'd stolen three hundred thousand dollars' worth of weapons from him. Given them to Slade. And _liked_ it. Maybe he knew some of it, but not all.

Wally knew everything.

---

**Rose**

"Wally, huh? How's that going?"

Robin didn't respond right away, then finally shrugged.

"He's a good kid," she tried again. "Pretty much the reason I'm not still hanging out with—with those losers."

"Which we all appreciate," he said, nodding politely. Formally. Stiffly.

Jinx tugged on the hem of her skirt, feeling cold doubt trickle into her—because Wally was irreverence and laughter, not anything like Robin who…well, actually, she hadn't thought enough about him to have any idea who he was. If it was what Wally needed.

"Take care of him, okay? Please." She thought about roses and smiled.

---

**Music**

He had brain damage. That was the only explanation.

Starfire had a model's face, a dancer's body, hair that any shampoo company would kill to get its hands on, bright eyes that glittered when she was happy, and all first thing in the morning, in slippers, on too little sleep. But more than that. She _cared,_ she _loved_, unequivocal and uncompromising and unshakable. She could draw a smile out of anyone just by being in the room. And when she laughed, it was music.

And Robin had brain damage because he didn't—couldn't—feel _anything_ when he looked at her.

---

**Dead**

"Hey Robin?"

"Little busy, Beast Boy."

"Umm, kay, this won't take long, but I'm supposed to…Well, not really supposed to 'cos he didn't _ask _me to ask, but Wally wants to know…I mean, he asked me if…"

"I can't understand you; you're laughing too hard. And the fact that you're laughing in conjunction with something Wally wants to know really doesn't bode well."

"And I was just confused, y'know—'cos you seemed to kinda like Starfire, and I didn't know if that meant that you couldn't—"

"Just tell me, Beast Boy."

"…Robin, are you gay?"

"…He's dead. And buried."

---

**Disturbing**

"Seriously. Don't take this as pressure." Wally kissed him. "'Cos it's not. I'll wait. But Robin, the way you think about sex is kinda disturbing."

It wasn't the way he thought. It was the nights he'd stayed in his room and done calculus and tried not to think about Bruce's lines and lies and the things he orchestrated like another job; it was the kids on the streets with smeared, dirty makeup, the subjects of quiet, helpless conversations with Bruce when he'd asked the man afterwards what they were doing and why…

"I'm sorry."

"I really hate your dad sometimes."

---

**Fight**

There were only two things that could make Wally act like a three-year-old who needed a nap. The first was waiting in line for things. The second was when he and Robin had had a fight.

Cyborg was betting on the second.

"Sure you don't wanna play Mega Monkeys?"

"Nuh-uh." He grabbed a pillow and pulled it over his head.

Silence thickened in the air until Wally finally spoke again, equal parts indignant and sad, "Why does he think he's the only one who doesn't deserve to be happy?"

"That's not—"

"It is, Cy. It is and it _sucks."_

---

**Luck**

"So yeah, my place got flooded—really nasty; you don't want to know what the kitchen looks like. Rotten luck, huh?"

Starfire nodded in sympathy while Beast Boy yanked the suitcase out of the boy's hands and said something about how many spare bedrooms they had.

Kid Flash's eyes fell on his mask—and stayed there. Well, mostly: Robin chose not to think about the possibility of him looking anywhere else.

The boy grinned innocently. "Hey, gorgeous. You got a name besides the obvious?"

"My name is Robin. You know that," he grated out.

Another grin. "Maybe my luck's improving."

---

**Work**

He totally didn't get it. Didn't get it when they were lying in Robin's bed, when he was sliding his hands under the other boy's shirt and moaning into his mouth when Robin shifted against him—probably unconsciously. Probably. And when Robin suddenly jerked away in a disconnected movement, eyes snapping open as he pushed himself up, muttering something about whatever case he was working on.

He would have worried if it were anyone else; if you could think about work while kissing, something was wrong. Unless you were Robin.

So Wally just laughed at him and didn't get it.

---

**Blue**

It was something he'd never considered. Never, until he was staring at the dark bruise that ran from the underside of Wally's right eye all the way to his temple, blue seeping into black, the reminder of a fist that had gotten lucky in yesterday's fight.

And he couldn't look away, couldn't stop watching Wally while he slept, staring down at him and half-wanting to drag Raven in here and make her heal it—even though she couldn't do much for bruises, he reminded himself angrily.

But what was—what _scared_ him—the unqualified _truth _that Wally could get hurt.

---

**Picture**

"Who was that one?"

"The names are on the files, Wally."

"Not _who _was she. Who _was _she?" He slid the file across the desk, open to the page with the small picture clipped to the top corner.

Robin knew before he looked, but it didn't change the way his stomach clenched up when he stared at huge blue eyes, laughing back at him through a curtain of blonde.

His pencil fell onto the desk, and then he was squeezing Wally's hand, desperately, and hating himself for how much he needed it.

"She didn't know. None of us ever did."

---

**Time**

It's been one year, eight months, and twelve days. Not that Robin thinks about it. He's just good at numbers.

Eight months and twelve days ago, he'd gone back. Stood on the spot where Slade's headquarters used to be, just staring at the ground and listening to his breathing.

And then he'd met Wally. Robin doesn't think he'll need to go when it's been two years.

Wally doesn't know. It hasn't come up, and he's been okay—because they keep all their clothes on and stay above the waist. Eventually, Robin will have to tell him.

And time fades everything.

---

**Sleep**

He got quiet sometimes. Not like when he'd duct tape himself to the computer for ten years—this was something else, something from _inside,_ a nerve hidden deep under defense mechanisms and weapons and black strips of fabric. Somebody would say something, or do something, and he'd freeze, every muscle tensing.

And when they fought Slade, Robin never let anyone go alone. Ever. If he found out that they had, they'd be catching hell.

And Robin never cried. Except sometimes he cried in his sleep. Wally never told him.

Wally didn't know what it meant. He didn't want to know.

---

**Tell**

"I need to tell you something." He sounded more like a scared three-year-old than Robin. Robin had never sounded like this in his life. Ever. Wally was sure of it.

So he asked, fully prepared to be yelled at. "Is it about Slade?"

The yelling never came. "Yes."

Wally pulled him into a hug, and the shivering convinced him that he was right. "You don't have to say it; I know."

"No, not just that—"

"I _know,_ baby." He'd known for weeks.

"I'll understand if you don't—"

Wally stroked his hair. "I love you. We'll work it out."

---

**Angel**

"We sorta dated. Y'know. Before," he'd said, fingertips patting the top of the shoe. The lump of stone that looked like a shoe. He smiled a little. "I think it's pretty—makes her look like an angel. See how her arms are like wings?"

It didn't, not really, but Wally nodded anyway.

"Hey, Kid Flash?"

"Yeah?"

Beast Boy paused to pick a leaf out of the plaque. "Have you ever loved someone so much that it hurts—like a stomachache, except good, but not exactly and—well, have you?"

Wally nodded again, and this time he was telling the truth.

---

**Holiday**

He hit the button on the vidlink and had to stop himself from touching the screen. Not being able to touch Robin for three days was making him crazy. "Hi, baby. How's your holiday going?"

Robin sighed. "Lots of staring contests and awkward silences—and it's not a holiday."

The question almost didn't make it into speech, but Wally forced it out. "So. You tell him?"

"Not yet."

"You gonna?"

The boy on the screen bit his lip, seeming younger in the oversized t-shirt than he ever had in uniform. "I'm trying, Wally. I swear."

"It's okay."

"No it's not."

---

**Hate**

"He hates me."

"He doesn't hate you."

"Wrong," Robin argued. "He absolutely does."

Wally took his hands, urged him forward into a hug—one that Robin didn't even pretend he didn't want. This was bad. "Just tell me what happened," he whispered, kissing his hair.

"He—he told me to end it. This. Us. Immediately." Robin shuddered.

"And you just—" Taking a breath, Wally forced the anger—and the fear—out of his voice. "What did you say?"

Robin laughed bitterly. "I said a lot of things. Let's just say the answer was no. And now he hates me."

---

**Cold**

"Your city. Is freezing."

"It's _not_ my city."

"S'more yours than mine."

Robin glared at him as he sidestepped a patch of ice. "It hasn't been my city for two years. I'm not sure it ever was."

Wally took his hand, lacing gloved fingers together, the gesture unfamiliar because Robin had always considered it idiotic. "I don't care whose it is. This cold—"

"Wally!" Robin jerked away from him.

A heavy sigh. _"What,_ baby?"

"We are two hundred feet from my—his house. You're _not _touching me."

The hand twitched, as if in protest, then dropped to Wally's side.

---

**Beach**

"This is so not as good as our beach."

"We don't have a beach."

"Do you delight in contradicting _everything_ I say? What do you call the thing that surrounds the Tower?"

"I—something not meant for childish—Wally, put your shoes back on!"

"I just wanna see if Gotham's water is as cold as its—goddamn, it _definitely _is!"

"Told you. No sympathy." The words were Robin, but the tone wasn't—and neither was the grin, the unmasked blue eyes with mischievous, raised eyebrows, the freezing sand dusting his jeans.

'Teenage boy' looked _really _good on him, Wally decided.

---

**Map**

"Look, I know you hate me, and that I'm not good enough for him—although, in my defense, I'm a pretty fantastic kisser—sorry, _god! _The point is that I'm tired. And nobody's getting convinced tonight. So can we all _please_ just go to sleep?"

"_You_ may sleep. _Alone."_

"Geez, I'm not _that _dumb. If you need me, I'll be off needing a map to find my room."

"I don't remember saying you could go exploring."

"Well, I don't remember _you_ offering a map!"

Wally thought this would probably be a bad time to ask to see the Bat Cave.


	11. Christmas presents, part one!

_These next few are Christmas presents for friends--I'm still not finished with the requests I've gotten, and will be working on the others soon. Basically, I put out an offer to my friends to request stories, and these are the results. I said that I would write any pairing, and write them I did (though some were difficult)! Stay tuned for more, including Raven/KF, Robin/Starfire, and Robin/KF (I swear coercion was not involved with that last one). Happy belated holidays, you all, and thank you very much for reading my stories. _

* * *

**Start **_  
(BB/Terra, for Rumpelteazer.)_

Beast Boy didn't get mad when she ate the popcorn—really, ate more of it than she strung on the little piece of thread. Mostly because he was eating it, too. It was maybe the hundredth reason she'd thought of for why they were perfect together. Robin or Raven would have been mad—well, they probably wouldn't be here doing this in the first place. Raven didn't like decorating, and Robin didn't like _holidays_. Robin didn't _have _holidays. It was kind of scary.

"Don't poke yourself," he cautioned, leaning over her shoulder as if to make sure she'd listened.

The needle gleamed in Terra's hand, reflecting off the light overhead when she held it at just the right angle. "It's okay; I'm good at stuff like this. Did you know that I'm learning crochet?"

He blinked. "Crow-shay?"

"Yeah, it's like knitting, except with only one needle—and it's not a needle, more like a hook."

"You really don't strike me as the knitting type," Beast Boy said, reaching for another handful of popcorn. "Where'd you learn that?" He set three kernels aside for the string, then shoved the rest in his mouth.

"In a book."

The look he gave her meant that he wanted a better explanation, but Terra turned back to her popcorn, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of her lips. You were supposed to let boys guess things like that; it was good not to tell them everything about you, not right away. Of course, Beast Boy already knew _way_ more about her than she'd _ever_ wanted him to know—but maybe this was a start.

"What book?" he asked at last.

She kept her eyes on the popcorn, sticking a kernel with the needle and sliding it down the string until it met the others. "Raven loaned it to me."

Beast Boy laughed. _"Raven_ really doesn't strike me as the knitting type, either."

"She said I needed a hobby." Terra shrugged, shifting her weight so her shoulder was almost touching his.

He gave her a cheesy grin. "You already have one: hanging out with me."

Terra's answering smile was a lot less tiny than before. Without letting herself worry about what he might think, she grabbed one of the kernels that he'd been balancing on his knee. "Popcorn tax," she explained, tossing it into her mouth. It was almost too salty, but not in a bad way.

"Cheater!"

"Nu-uh; you're just too slow!"

"Just so you know, the only reason I'm not chasing you around the room right now is because you're holding a scary-looking needle." The fake-glare was punctuated by a giggle.

Terra's fingers slipped through her hair, grabbing a strand that was falling down and tucking it back under the elastic of her ponytail. Cutting her hair had made it harder to put up, which was kind of annoying, but she liked it shorter. It made her look different—and she wanted to look different.

"Good thing: 'cos otherwise, we'd never get this done," she said. "You not chasing me, I mean. Well—not—we'd never get the decorations done, I mean. And…you know."

"Yeah. I know." His hand settled momentarily in the middle of her back, thumb rubbing her shoulder blade until he seemed to realize what he was doing, and pulled away.

"I—I just wanted to say—" She swallowed, the words sticking in her throat like too much peanut butter mixed with too much honey. The bad kind, when it got too sweet and thickened into something nauseating. "I'm sorry for everyth—"

"Terra. You've said it. And said it. And now it's Christmas. And we're not going to talk about that." He hesitated, then the cushions on the couch shifted gently, and he touched his lips to her cheek. It wasn't anything like how she'd wanted it to be before, how she'd dreamed about, but somehow that made it better.

"Okay," Terra said, pointing at the popcorn chain with her free hand, in an attempt to distract him from her blush. "So how do you know when you're finished with this thing?"

"When it's long enough, duh."

"But how do you know if it's long enough?"

"You _will!_ Now it's your turn to make another bowl—no, it _is;_ you know what Cy says: 'You kill it, you refill it'."

Looking him deep in the eyes, she sighed theatrically and rose from her seat, pretending to stomp over to the counter where they'd left the box of popcorn wide open. She didn't know, and it wasn't finished, and it wasn't enough. But it was a start.

* * *

**Uncharacteristic**

(Raven/Starfire, for Amaigirl)

Sometimes she took her seriously.

Well, she supposed that would be self-evident by the mere fact that they were—doing this. Here. Now. The cold sand stuck to the undersides of her thighs, and she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, wishing that she'd worn something warmer like an intelligent person. It was never a problem for Starfire, whose body temperature ran at a constant one hundred and fifteen degrees. She didn't get cold. It was one of the things that Raven liked about her.

_As a blind man loves the light…_

Raven shook the thought away with the stray grains of sand covering her knees. Drove herself back to reality, back to the present, back to the girl at her side who'd just uttered something uncharacteristically profound. Or rather, something not nearly as uncharacteristic as Raven had often thought it would be.

"Are you alright? I said that I like it this way. The silence. There is no separation between you and _everything."_ Her speech was slurred around some dreamy trance, the same one that could be induced by anything from a fresh bottle of mustard to a supernova.

"I'm fine," Raven managed, the crashing waves punctuating exactly how much she wasn't fine. She couldn't tell if she was better or worse than fine, but it definitely made her uncomfortable. "I can't believe I went along with this."

"I can," said Starfire, shrugging, her top becoming slightly off-centered with the movement. "It was a good night for flying—and then, it was a good moment for the ocean. I could tell, you know. From the way your eyes shifted to the window and your brows drew together."

"Could tell what?"

"That you felt like flying." She dug a toe into the sand as the bitter edge of a wave stretched itself toward her, barely missing her exposed feet. Her boots lay in a twisted heap beside her.

Raven quirked an eyebrow. "Oh right. I'd been wondering why you made up something about scanning the coast for threats and then yanked me out a window. Rude of me for not asking until now."

"There could have been a threat." Starfire pretended to be scandalized. Or maybe she actually was. Raven could never tell—Starfire's capacity for lying was wound around an impossible spider web of honesty that made distinguishing truth from falsehood more tiresome than it was worth—and never found herself wanting to know which.

"Because we don't have technology for threat-scanning, or anything."

"Sometimes eyes are the best." And Starfire's own conjured a glowing green, slow and warm, cutting through the foggy night and burning a lazy, bubbling path through the water.

"Romantic clichés. Be still, my beating heart."

The glow faded so that Raven only got the after-image of the illumination when Starfire swung around to stare at her, slivers of red hair falling over her shoulders. "Raven, I am going to like you whether you want me to or not."

And Raven didn't need empathy to get the stubborn optimism, the _statement_ of everything that _was _about the world, that existed because Starfire made it that way. She didn't need it to take her seriously. To understand. To let Starfire take the unqualified, doubtless assertions and trickle them into _her._ Even when she shouldn't. When she couldn't. Because Starfire didn't care about shouldn't and couldn't.

The empathy helped, though, when Raven put her arms around the other girl and kissed her with something that could have been desperation, except Raven wasn't desperate, didn't _need_ the security and pleasure and permanence that flowed from the deep recesses of Starfire's mind. Always open for anyone who wanted to look, her emotions were even more unfastened when they kissed, and Raven tangled her hands in Starfire's hair, the scent of lemon strong from her turn at washing dishes—closed her eyes the rest of the way and wrapped the other girl's assurance around herself, pretending it was hers.

When they broke apart, it seemed as if the fog had thickened, though that could have just been her poor memory for anything that had happened prior to kissing Starfire—or anything that had happened since kissing Starfire, or would ever happen again that did not include kissing Starfire.

Starfire smiled, as the last fragment of physical illumination from her eyes faded, leaving only eyes. "Considering that I am usually the one to initiate such gestures, might I take this as your full acceptance of our relationship?"

She breathed in salty, heavy air, the sarcasm rising to the surface with the froth on the waves. "I thought I accepted that two weeks ago."

Starfire nodded, her smile widening slightly. "That was what I was hoping for."

* * *

**End**

_(KF/Jinx, for LyricalEcho)_

Jinx had expected a lot of things for her life, but never rotting piers and the stench of dead shrimp.

Before, she was going to be a heart surgeon. That's what she would say when she watched the medical documentaries on television, curled up on the couch with a faded stuffed rabbit in her lap. It wasn't to help people. It had never been to help people, or to make the world a better place, or any of that Superman crap. She'd wanted to be a surgeon because people _noticed_ surgeons. Because she would be able to walk down the street, look at the people passing by, and think about how much better she was. How clever. How successful. How hard she worked, and how she'd damn well gotten everything she deserved.

Well. That was before. Before the uncanny parade of improbably bad events that kept her off the honor roll, out of the middle school graduation ceremony, led her away from high school with the normal kids and to the academy. The academy where the bad things could flow through her and be used for something, the academy that gave her hope that maybe the sickness hadn't really ruined her, hadn't ruined it all. And, in the end, the academy that turned everything on its head so she didn't get any of the things she'd wanted.

Except for one: everything she deserved. She had gotten that. Because the anti-luck had had something to do with it…but it was mostly her.

"Kinda cold out."

Every time Jinx thought that the curse was getting better, it had a way of smearing the silly, stupid wish in her face.

"Might storm tonight, y'know, and this isn't a good place to be."

"Get lost." She kept her gaze locked on the wharf, staring into the barnacles that caked the rocks at the bottom of the pier.

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same," said Kid Flash, stepping forward to lean gently against the railing. "Last time I did that, Beast Boy didn't let me forget it for a week."

"I really, really don't want to hear it right now, Kid Flash."

He nodded seriously. "Well, what do you want to hear?"

"You'd say it, whatever it was, I'm sure," she spat, shuddering as the wind pulled at her skirt.

Kid Flash shrugged. "I only say things that are true. And right now, I'd like to say that it's about to storm, and you shouldn't be out here."

"Don't give me the hero routine."

"C'mon, Jinx. Just let me take you home."

She glared at him. "This _is _home."

"There's other places that could be," he commented. "Better places. Places that don't smell like fish."

"Shrimp," Jinx said, glancing behind her at the stained, oil-encrusted boats.

"Shrimp are fish."

"They are not," she retorted, as if that excused everything, from why she was standing here to why she'd let the last three years of her life trickle down the drain like dinner leftovers. "They're crustaceans. So shut up."

A gloved hand settled over hers, much warmer than she'd been expecting—and somehow, it seemed strange that Kid Flash had a solid body underneath the streaks of speed. Well, she knew he had a body, of course, because she'd been distracted by it on more than one occasion…but it wasn't supposed to be this _real_. This much like all the other boys she knew—except completely not.

"I'm not going to shut up," he said, blue eyes staring into hers, almost like an apology. "Not till you start helping yourself." He exhaled sharply, the condensation from his breath gathering in the air. "You're better than this."

"You don't know rat shi—"

"Don't swear. You're not so pretty when you do that."

The lamp post above her flickered, or maybe that was the blur of hot tears as she tightened her grip on the railing. "You don't know what I'm better than. Or worse than. You—you don't know." She couldn't decide if she needed his hand over hers to survive or couldn't stand it for another instant.

"Do you?"

A thousand possible answers lurked just under her tongue, all of them wrong, and she was grateful for the clap of thunder that drowned out the need to respond, for the unexpected wave that struck the railing and threatened to spray them both with salt water.

"Go home, Jinx."

"This _is_ home." There wasn't any home. Couldn't ever be.

He nodded soothingly, weaving his fingers through hers and tugging her away from the railing. "Then come with me—you don't even have to call it home. You can call it anything you want. I'll even let you swear."

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"I'm not," he said. "But I am telling you that I know where you can find a place that doesn't leak, blankets that aren't dirty, and soup that doesn't have leather in it."

She froze, watching as he stopped in his tracks to look after her, looking for all the world like he honestly could not fathom why anyone wouldn't accept such an extravagant offer. Except he probably could fathom it. Thick pellets of rain splattered onto her shoulders.

"You comin'?"

"It—" She stared at her shoes, the rainwater mingling with the dirt. "It wasn't supposed to end this way."

Kid Flash's eyes were suddenly inches from her face, as he took her other hand in his. "It doesn't have to be an ending. But only you can decide that."

Jinx listened to herself breathe in and out, then followed him off the dock.

* * *

**Messy**  
(BB/Cyborg, for Cervyy)

Cyborg would have said that Beast Boy was dying inside, but Raven would have killed him. And, redundancy aside, he didn't want to be martyred on the cross of literary clichés.

He was dying inside anyway.

If Cyborg had that fluid grace that Raven did, the one that made every thought a piece of poetry, he'd know better ways to describe it. But he wasn't, and he didn't, so he just said what he knew. And he knew how to recognize it. He'd seen it on the kids, back there, back _then,_ from behind bruised eyelids and dirty cheeks, who lived in cardboard boxes that some people called homes and ate what they could get from begging. It was different, didn't come from the same source, but the hopelessness was there. The assurance, the total _security_ that nothing would ever get better. And bitter hatred of that security, but at the same time the inability to shake it.

And Beast Boy had that hopelessness. He never talked about what was said back at the school, but he didn't need to. It seeped from him anyway, like motor oil in all the wrong places, made the irreverent laughter and inappropriate pranks and inconceivable optimism a distant memory.

It was hard not to be angry at her. She'd done the best thing for herself, and Cyborg knew it; the only thing that would allow her to keep moving forward with the decisions she'd made. But when that thing made Beast Boy say that no, actually, he was too tired for video games and just needed to sleep for awhile (and he'd never sleep)—it was hard, when it wasn't supposed to be. Cyborg was supposed to understand, to be objective, to weigh and measure and raise a calm voice over everyone else's screams. And he did. And he would. But this time, it hurt. This time, when it was about someone that he—he couldn't go down that road.

"I like this one," he said, running a fingertip over the top of the frame. "It was last Thanksgiving, remember? She kept trying to help you cook."

"And put salt instead of sugar in the cookies," Cyborg finished, trying to call up the smile he needed. The solemn, reverent one that was more like the red-headed stepchild of a frown.

Beast Boy set the picture in the cardboard box. "Best cookies I ever had." He tilted his chin down into the box, eyes still focused on Terra's glossy image: standing behind Raven's chair with her hands on the other girl's shoulders, her hair in a French braid that Starfire had done earlier that afternoon.

Cyborg didn't answer, hoping that the silence said what he needed it to say.

"She doesn't remember," he continued slowly. "I showed her, and she said it was somebody else. She said it couldn't be her 'cos she doesn't like that shirt. Doesn't like black. 'Cos it makes her look too pale. I never thought that it did."

"Maybe you should take a break and start getting these clothes off the floor for awhile instead."

"Nah. I like it messy."

_Some things never change. _"Okay. Do you want to take a break and mess up the living room, too?"

"I—" His fingers tightened slightly around another picture, with him and Terra making faces in a photo booth. "I think I should just stay here for awhile."

And what hurt the most was that he couldn't help, couldn't say the things he usually did because he didn't know how much of it was tangled up in how he felt, how he wanted things to be—and he couldn't risk the unwanted emotions bleeding into sympathy. Beast Boy didn't need that right now. Didn't need anything like that at all right now.

So he knew that he'd be kicking himself for the words that somehow found their way out of him: "C'mon, I have a new game…"

"I just—"

"There's monster trucks in it…"

"Umm—"

"You can rearrange the boxes so they're not in alphabetical order, and I won't even tell Robin that you did it."

For a long moment—too long—he didn't respond, threatened to retreat back into the hopelessness and certainty that nothing would ever be better, eyes locked on the box of photographs. And then, thankfully, the spell was broken, though it obviously took every ounce of determination that he had to heave himself out of it. Beast Boy turned his gaze back to Cyborg slowly, eyes shifting into some manufactured horror. "He _alphabetized_ them _again?" _

"Yep: by title, and there is exactly one centimeter of space between each title."

He was on his feet at the word 'centimeter.' "That is _not_ cool! Don't worry, Cy: I'll fix it!"

The excitement and mischief that had died when he last saw Terra were false and unreal, but it was better than nothing. And Cyborg vowed to make him smile again, even if it would never be the same.

* * *

**Vulnerable**  
(Rob/Star, for Hooliganette)

"That was fun!"

"Fun? No. 'Fun' is something completely incommensurable with getting stuck on It's A Small World for thirty minutes."

Terra rolled her eyes. "You're such a grouch, Robin."

"I'm only a 'grouch' when a guy dressed up like a cartoon character decides that I'm his new best friend."

"Umm, Robin?"

"What?"

"You're _always _a grouch."

"Not helping, Beast Boy."

Cyborg took a breath, sensing the possibility of an unwanted argument, and interrupted whatever Beast Boy was going to retort, "So. What are we going on next?"

Terra's eyes rounded with excitement. "Ooo! Look! Winnie the Pooh!"

Next to her, Starfire raised a quizzical eyebrow, pointing to a sign above one of the other rides. "Why is the older woman offering the younger an apple?"

Raven crossed her arms over her chest, nodding sagely. "She's just met giant mice in suspenders and frilly dresses, and it's the apple she's concerned about."

"Oh, I have seen similar creatures before: the Sylvian Nardrat resides in warm, slow-moving water and carries its young inside the ear canal…" Her forehead wrinkled in thought. "Though they typically do not wear clothing."

"It's—it's just a story; I'll explain it to you in line." Robin didn't quite smile: it was more of a warmth that came from everywhere and nowhere, fading too quickly to pin down into a single gesture. Cyborg had come to recognize that Starfire was the only one who could cause it.

"But I want Winnie the Pooh!" Terra insisted, latching onto Beast Boy's hand and tugging him in the direction of the other ride.

"You guys go on that, and we'll meet out outside next to Ariel," Cyborg said.

At the suggestion, Terra swung her head around, a grin crawling across her face the size of Florida. "Ooo! I want her picture—and her autograph—and I always liked her the best because she was like me; she liked exploring and finding new things, and in the end she got to—" She glanced at Beast Boy and blushed.

He grinned, taking her hand—delicately, as if he was afraid it might disintegrate if he held it the wrong way. "I'll—umm—stand in line for you. For the autograph. You know. We can do that after the ride—if you—y'know—still want to do that."

Terra linked their arms more closely together, leaning into his side with a barely audible, contented sigh. "'Course I do. And maybe they'll want _our_ autographs, like last time! See you guys in a sec!" She waved, heading over to the other ride with him in tow, free hand adjusting the princess crown that she'd had to have the minute they set foot in the Magic Kingdom.

A year ago, Robin would have been annoyed at the suggestion that they take a vacation. Well, he was still annoyed, and kept reminding them that they _weren't_ on vacation—there had been some unexplained bombings in the Orlando area, and they were here to make sure it didn't happen again—but he might have refused the diversion to Disney World outright. Out of principle. Out of obligation. Fear. Something. Of course, that was before Starfire had caught a glimpse of the park while flying over the city and surrounding areas. Before she'd turned to Robin with that smile that Cyborg had never seen him refuse.

"It's a poison apple. She was trying to kill Snow White."

"Why?" Starfire shifted in the air, resting the bottoms of her palms lightly on the handrails.

Robin faltered, brow wrinkling in thought, and a line of near-panic crossed his face that was entirely inappropriate for someone who simply couldn't answer a question. "I—I'm actually not sure," he admitted slowly. "I never saw it. The movie."

"It seems a story that most every human child is well acquainted with."

"Yeah, I just—that kind of thing was never really important." He grinned, and it didn't even look forced. "Kind of like getting Ariel's autograph."

"I see no reason why it should not be," Starfire said, one hand rising from the rail and touching his, brief and subtle, but Cyborg saw it. He was glad. It made things a little clearer, somehow.

Robin didn't respond for a moment, attention claimed by the screech of cars slamming into the station breaks; the harried mother doubling back to retrieve half-empty bottles of water, stuffed animals, and a diaper bag that could have carried a fully grown golden retriever; the children in line behind them who were arguing about which car they wanted, and how they wouldn't ride if it had to be Sleepy's.

"Maybe—when we get everything straightened out here—maybe we can watch it together." It wasn't a question, and yet it was, something effervescently vulnerable underneath the simple words that sounded so unlike Robin. Who was never vulnerable. Except when Starfire nodded, touched down gracefully onto the concrete, and moved to stand beside Robin.

Cyborg didn't get it. Couldn't say when it had begun, when it had _changed_, when Robin's concerned vigilance and strangely comfortable companionship with her had stopped being the same as it was with him and everyone else on the team. Half the time, he hardly noticed. Robin wouldn't let them notice. But for some reason, it fit together today into something that didn't matter when it began. Maybe it had something to do with this day, this place—the sticky, cotton-candy-and-bright-light chipping away at whatever sadness you thought you had, and the way you could breathe in laughter and acceptance and peace and random splashes of water from some mammoth-sized flower.

Maybe it had something to do with that. Or maybe it was just _them_. Maybe it had been them all along.

"Mirror, mirror."

"Huh?"

Raven smirked and poked him in the shoulder. "_Who's the fairest of them all, _Robin? That's what the apple was for."

He flashed a half-glance at Starfire, almost as if he was seeking the answer in her face, then finally admitted, "I don't get it."

"We'll work on you," Cyborg said, stepping aside and inviting the kids behind him to go in first, because the next car after this one was Sleepy's.


End file.
